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[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Even in the world I lived in this wasn't normal. The number on my chest changed from 1 to 3......million. The numbers on our chests indicates how many people we'll kill within the next month.
It started with a phone call with my mother asking to go to lunch. Naturally I'd love to see my mother and we set up a time and place. After I'd hung up the phone, that's when the numbers changed. I should've taken the clue, but I went along with our planned events anyway. As I walked down the street I payed attention to my numbers and to not show anyone. It stayed at 3 million.
It'd already bothered me that the number was 1, but 3 million? 3 MILLION?? How could I change so I wasn't accountable for all these lives. With a sigh I sat down at the restaurant table to meet with my mother. She wasn't here yet, but I was early. I reached to grab my fork, but decided not to and put my hand down on the table. Even weirder is when I put my hand down, the number went back down to 1.
To confirm what I saw, I reached for the fork again and the number on my chest rose to 3 million. Immediately I put my hand down and The number fell back to 1. What was going on? Why the fork? Then my Mother walked in and we exchanged our hello's. Soon we ordered our food, a salad for mother and a ravioli for me. She started eating, but I sat still. I couldn't reach for the fork now, a meal wasn't worth 3 million lives.
"Pick up your fork and eat your food." Mother told me. I shook my head in reply, "I can't." She gave me a strange look and tilted her head, "Why not?" I began to tremble, why couldn't I? What was going to happen if I took the fork? I guess curiosity took the better of me.
I looked directly into my Mother's eyes and with a shaky voice I managed to tell her, "I don't know." And before I could feel the regret, I took the fork. | "I'm telling you there's no bomb, there's nothing!" I screamed as tears strolled down my face.
*SMACK* goes the whip.
"waterboards don't get dry in the cia boy, you better be thankful we are letting you take a break to be whipped. Now tell me how you plan on killing 3 million people."
"I DONT" I screamed and cried. Blood was crawling down my back and down onto the floor below us. I could barely maintain composure at this point.
"I have no plans to hurt anybody, I'm just as scared as the rest of you. Please just believe me. Just lock me up if you have to just let me be. I didn't do anything!"
And it was at that moment that I sneezed and sniffled on the others in the room. Fear filled their eyes when they'd finally realized what had been done.
| |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Natural death ceased at 8:49 pm August 17 2016. Five years later, and the eggheads still have no clue why. You can get shot, stabbed, dropped off a 50 story building but no matter what you live. Alive with excruciating pain, but alive regardless. Except.... except sometimes.
Subatomic Longform Actualized Yttriated Energy Resonance events, or S.L.A.Y.E.R events if you lack a PHD. The long and short of it is, whatever causes this immortality has brief holes. Holes you can track with a $69.99 yttrium based implant. Holes that can give you your 15 minutes of fame. Or technically 30 days if you want to be totally accurate.
Once that timer ticks up, baby, you are on the every ones hot list. Celebrities itching to die offer you resorts, drugs, and sex. Elderly sports stars showing you their well practiced moves even as their ancient joints grind together. Every 5 star restaurant and Hottest night club wants you to off your destined victim in their "pristine establishment". That's how I ended up in the V.I.P. lounge at 22 Below casually chatting with Dr. Reinaldo while trying not to stare at his wife's fake DD's.
"You know, you may be the only person who's met more than one slayer before... Care to share any advice before I become a murder?" I joked.
Christopher's face sharply changed from jovial to a darker, hushed shell of what it was.
"Yes. Don't let your number raise higher than one."
"That's a myth. No one has confirmed a slay count higher than one."
"Tell that to the experiments in the basement of the state department."
His steady gaze held mine for far too long before he broke into a nervous laugh.
" I'm kidding of course." he said, utterly failing to convince me he was.
"Your sense of humor makes me sick doc, even I do owe your implant my recent windfall. Which way is the head?"
He pointed me to to a hallway off the private room, opposite the throngs of revelers below. As I washed my hands in the ivory sink opposite the frosted glass stall, I looked into the silver-inlaid mirror and checked my implant out of compulsion. I exclaimed the three words I had abused and overused my whole life.
"God DAMN IT!"
I was going to kill 3,553,982 people. And I was going to be a hero for it, assuming I didn't end up in pieces on some cold slab in Dr. Reinaldo's Lab. Leaving the bathroom, I pulled the fire alarm and quietly slipped out of the frying pan...
------------------------------------------------------------------------
May Continue Later
| "I'm telling you there's no bomb, there's nothing!" I screamed as tears strolled down my face.
*SMACK* goes the whip.
"waterboards don't get dry in the cia boy, you better be thankful we are letting you take a break to be whipped. Now tell me how you plan on killing 3 million people."
"I DONT" I screamed and cried. Blood was crawling down my back and down onto the floor below us. I could barely maintain composure at this point.
"I have no plans to hurt anybody, I'm just as scared as the rest of you. Please just believe me. Just lock me up if you have to just let me be. I didn't do anything!"
And it was at that moment that I sneezed and sniffled on the others in the room. Fear filled their eyes when they'd finally realized what had been done.
| |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Honey, can you get the french toast? The coffee machine is taking a piss again and its all over the counter." Sally asked as I came downstairs for breakfast.
As I passed by I gave Jenny a quick kiss, almost not touching because she's at the age where makeup is more important than Dad, and messing up Alan's hair. He didn't even notice, just shoving sugar-laden french toast in his mouth. Two fast steps to miss the egg spilled on the floor and the pathetic my wife's toy dog eating it for breakfast, then flip the last two slices off the cook-top and onto the plate. Fork, knife (thick slice of butter while the wife isn't looking!), a dash of powered sugar, some maple syrup, scoop of eggs, another of fruit. Drop the plate on the table just in time for Sally to hand me the morning's wake up fuel.
And then eating while craziness washes around me. It's always odd how such a noisy place with so many people going about their day can yet be so alone. But it is. When you're the history teacher in high school there are no high priced lunches, no risky deals or newsworthy moments in your life. You are the solid foundation that everyone else gets to bounce off. Just like I want it.
Sally may be too plump and far too easy going for my family, but no one does french toast better, nor coffee. It's simply wonderful to wake up to a morning with good food, a happy smile and a family that is living "the life".
Looking back I can see how insufferable I was this morning. Just listening to that I can't help asking, "What were you thinking? Such a perfect gooey little domestic scene practically screams for drama. One moment, that warm scene, the rich scent of dark roast, thick smells of french toast with butter and maple and sugar, happy voices enjoying life, oblivious to what's coming next.
Then Sally turns around. The *crock* as her mug hits the floor, kids jumping, the dog skittering to the side on the tile floor. And suddenly hush! A moment of complete silence as Sally's eyes widen, the flush up her neck as a massive reaction spikes her blood, then the shriek, "Duncan!!! What the hell are you going to do?!"
For a moment, just one, I haven't a clue what she's talking about. But then the way her and the kids are staring at me finally penetrates. I look down and see something I have never seen before. Something I knew I would never see. Bright red numbers shining through my shirt. Not just a single digit, horrible as that would be. No, the number shining through my shirt had a three and enough zeros to be millions. *How the hell am I going to kill 3 million people today?* It's just unreal. Not possible. Must be a mistake. Someone has got to be pulling a prank or something.
But my thoughts went to what we were told 30 years ago when the counters were mandated flash through my head. "A human's life if looked at in four dimension would resemble a worm with endless tight loops for each day's rotation, stretching out over many circumferences as the Earth turns around the sun. And the Physicist, Dr. Melvin Harlow, who had found a way to read along the line forward and back, just enough to allow prediction. Turns out that taking a human life actually causes a disruption on the life-flow, enough of one to create a blip, measurable by the Harlow detector. The counter mandated when it was discovered it could be used to help people avoid dangerous situations. Seeing a four or eight could lead someone to drive more safely, to avoid driving under the influence. A major breakthrough it was claimed!"
*I've never seen a number on my chest. I can't breathe, can't think, don't know what to do. Surely there's a number to call? Someone who can explain why I'm suddenly seeing 3 million deaths by my choices? How can I kill that many? Not why, I have no reason to do that. But how? I'm... no one. I'm nothing special. Just a history teacher in a small town with no real enemies, no real ambitions. Just to live a good life with my wife and kids. What the hell is happening?"
When I felt Sally's hand on my arm I realized I hadn't said anything. "I don't know what's going on Sal. This is... wrong. Somethings wrong about this. I don't know what, but I'm going to, well..."
"What?" She asked. "What are you going to do? Who can you call? You know the police will take you into custody as soon as they find out."
The phone rings.
"Why would they take me into... oh, yeah, the law. Right. But I'm not..."
The phone keeps ringing. Someone really wants to talk.
"Hello?" I ask.
"I can tell by your voice Duncan that you've seen your Marlow numbers. I just wanted to call and tell you that its been fifteen years. Long, hard years. Everyday I've woken up and missed my beautiful Sally. Days you've lived with her, loved her. And kept her from me. For which you are now going to pay. I hope you burn for this Duncan, I truly do. Goodbye."
Even into the silence on the line all I could say was, "What? Who is this?" | "I'm telling you there's no bomb, there's nothing!" I screamed as tears strolled down my face.
*SMACK* goes the whip.
"waterboards don't get dry in the cia boy, you better be thankful we are letting you take a break to be whipped. Now tell me how you plan on killing 3 million people."
"I DONT" I screamed and cried. Blood was crawling down my back and down onto the floor below us. I could barely maintain composure at this point.
"I have no plans to hurt anybody, I'm just as scared as the rest of you. Please just believe me. Just lock me up if you have to just let me be. I didn't do anything!"
And it was at that moment that I sneezed and sniffled on the others in the room. Fear filled their eyes when they'd finally realized what had been done.
| |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Hello!" I exclaimed, brimming with excitement as the delivery girl hands me my package, "Another wonderful day isn't it!"
"You know, you sure are joyful for a pathologist" she says, giving me a crooked eyebrow raise, "Just sign here"
I hastily jot my name down and scurry off to the lab with my fresh cadaver.
I can't contain myself, I'm so overjoyed when I open the box and the number 300 leers back at me. It's almost ready, my plan can be achieved tonight!
I begin the prep required for my little experiment, as I listen to the rain spluttering at my windows and the thunder knocking at my eardrums. I can't believe people kill themselves over little numbers that appear on their chest. Oh well, they have only temporarily postponed the inevitable.
The thunder continues to roar outside as my preparation is complete. 20 bodies all hooked up to the lightning conductor. 20 people who thought they could cheat the system. I'll show them! I can't stop grinning, the time has finally arrived.
It's an orchestra outside, and they are playing my favourite tune. The woodwind sections are lightly tickling my house, making it creak a wonderful amount, and the cymbals colliding with a **CRASH**. "Time to count the missi-" It was instant. the lightning had already illuminated the room. It's going perfectly, I can't help but laugh. The generator begins whirring and all the gizmos are going haywire. The bodies begin jolting as spasming around as the generator feeds them energy.
It's been about half an hour since the lightning and I'm just now wiping the tears from my eyes.
Glasses. Where are my glasses.
I pat around, feeling for where I may of placed my spectacles. Nothing. Still nothing. Something, but not glasses. In-fact they feel a bit like toes. And they aren't my toes.
"Ahh welcome back!" I shout, squinting at the body moving before me. "Hope all is w-" It was already upon me, tearing and scratching at my gut trying to find it's first meal. As it tore open my lab coat I noticed my own number had changed. How unfortunate. I won't be alive to look after all 3,000,000 bodies there are about to be lying around.
(Sorry if this is rushed) | She looked down upon her chest in disbelief. 3 million. 3 million people would die by her hand. How was she going to sneak this by the Officers? She was going to be locked up to kill and be killed.
She fumbled over to her makeup drawer for some foundation. At midnight on the first day of the month, the numbers change. Immediately afterward, the Officers come by every house to check that the number stays 0. If not, they send you to the Institution. She needed to cover this number up. And fast. She heard a car door close in her parking lot. They expect everyone to be attentive and at the door at midnight when the numbers change.
No matter what you do, the number on your chest is how many people you will kill by the end of the month. There's nothing to change it, it's fate. The Officers lock all the people with numbers higher than 0 into the Institution. It's not foolproof, there's always breakouts, there has to be, but it's the best way they know of to keep civilians out of harm's way. There have been revisions over the years, but this is the way it's been.
She rubbed the concealer all over the numbers, but they won't go away. They won't go away. This can't be happening. The pounding on the door was deafening. There's no time left. She curled up into a ball. They're breaking the door down. Make them go away. Make the numbers go away. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Even in the world I lived in this wasn't normal. The number on my chest changed from 1 to 3......million. The numbers on our chests indicates how many people we'll kill within the next month.
It started with a phone call with my mother asking to go to lunch. Naturally I'd love to see my mother and we set up a time and place. After I'd hung up the phone, that's when the numbers changed. I should've taken the clue, but I went along with our planned events anyway. As I walked down the street I payed attention to my numbers and to not show anyone. It stayed at 3 million.
It'd already bothered me that the number was 1, but 3 million? 3 MILLION?? How could I change so I wasn't accountable for all these lives. With a sigh I sat down at the restaurant table to meet with my mother. She wasn't here yet, but I was early. I reached to grab my fork, but decided not to and put my hand down on the table. Even weirder is when I put my hand down, the number went back down to 1.
To confirm what I saw, I reached for the fork again and the number on my chest rose to 3 million. Immediately I put my hand down and The number fell back to 1. What was going on? Why the fork? Then my Mother walked in and we exchanged our hello's. Soon we ordered our food, a salad for mother and a ravioli for me. She started eating, but I sat still. I couldn't reach for the fork now, a meal wasn't worth 3 million lives.
"Pick up your fork and eat your food." Mother told me. I shook my head in reply, "I can't." She gave me a strange look and tilted her head, "Why not?" I began to tremble, why couldn't I? What was going to happen if I took the fork? I guess curiosity took the better of me.
I looked directly into my Mother's eyes and with a shaky voice I managed to tell her, "I don't know." And before I could feel the regret, I took the fork. | She looked down upon her chest in disbelief. 3 million. 3 million people would die by her hand. How was she going to sneak this by the Officers? She was going to be locked up to kill and be killed.
She fumbled over to her makeup drawer for some foundation. At midnight on the first day of the month, the numbers change. Immediately afterward, the Officers come by every house to check that the number stays 0. If not, they send you to the Institution. She needed to cover this number up. And fast. She heard a car door close in her parking lot. They expect everyone to be attentive and at the door at midnight when the numbers change.
No matter what you do, the number on your chest is how many people you will kill by the end of the month. There's nothing to change it, it's fate. The Officers lock all the people with numbers higher than 0 into the Institution. It's not foolproof, there's always breakouts, there has to be, but it's the best way they know of to keep civilians out of harm's way. There have been revisions over the years, but this is the way it's been.
She rubbed the concealer all over the numbers, but they won't go away. They won't go away. This can't be happening. The pounding on the door was deafening. There's no time left. She curled up into a ball. They're breaking the door down. Make them go away. Make the numbers go away. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Natural death ceased at 8:49 pm August 17 2016. Five years later, and the eggheads still have no clue why. You can get shot, stabbed, dropped off a 50 story building but no matter what you live. Alive with excruciating pain, but alive regardless. Except.... except sometimes.
Subatomic Longform Actualized Yttriated Energy Resonance events, or S.L.A.Y.E.R events if you lack a PHD. The long and short of it is, whatever causes this immortality has brief holes. Holes you can track with a $69.99 yttrium based implant. Holes that can give you your 15 minutes of fame. Or technically 30 days if you want to be totally accurate.
Once that timer ticks up, baby, you are on the every ones hot list. Celebrities itching to die offer you resorts, drugs, and sex. Elderly sports stars showing you their well practiced moves even as their ancient joints grind together. Every 5 star restaurant and Hottest night club wants you to off your destined victim in their "pristine establishment". That's how I ended up in the V.I.P. lounge at 22 Below casually chatting with Dr. Reinaldo while trying not to stare at his wife's fake DD's.
"You know, you may be the only person who's met more than one slayer before... Care to share any advice before I become a murder?" I joked.
Christopher's face sharply changed from jovial to a darker, hushed shell of what it was.
"Yes. Don't let your number raise higher than one."
"That's a myth. No one has confirmed a slay count higher than one."
"Tell that to the experiments in the basement of the state department."
His steady gaze held mine for far too long before he broke into a nervous laugh.
" I'm kidding of course." he said, utterly failing to convince me he was.
"Your sense of humor makes me sick doc, even I do owe your implant my recent windfall. Which way is the head?"
He pointed me to to a hallway off the private room, opposite the throngs of revelers below. As I washed my hands in the ivory sink opposite the frosted glass stall, I looked into the silver-inlaid mirror and checked my implant out of compulsion. I exclaimed the three words I had abused and overused my whole life.
"God DAMN IT!"
I was going to kill 3,553,982 people. And I was going to be a hero for it, assuming I didn't end up in pieces on some cold slab in Dr. Reinaldo's Lab. Leaving the bathroom, I pulled the fire alarm and quietly slipped out of the frying pan...
------------------------------------------------------------------------
May Continue Later
| She looked down upon her chest in disbelief. 3 million. 3 million people would die by her hand. How was she going to sneak this by the Officers? She was going to be locked up to kill and be killed.
She fumbled over to her makeup drawer for some foundation. At midnight on the first day of the month, the numbers change. Immediately afterward, the Officers come by every house to check that the number stays 0. If not, they send you to the Institution. She needed to cover this number up. And fast. She heard a car door close in her parking lot. They expect everyone to be attentive and at the door at midnight when the numbers change.
No matter what you do, the number on your chest is how many people you will kill by the end of the month. There's nothing to change it, it's fate. The Officers lock all the people with numbers higher than 0 into the Institution. It's not foolproof, there's always breakouts, there has to be, but it's the best way they know of to keep civilians out of harm's way. There have been revisions over the years, but this is the way it's been.
She rubbed the concealer all over the numbers, but they won't go away. They won't go away. This can't be happening. The pounding on the door was deafening. There's no time left. She curled up into a ball. They're breaking the door down. Make them go away. Make the numbers go away. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Honey, can you get the french toast? The coffee machine is taking a piss again and its all over the counter." Sally asked as I came downstairs for breakfast.
As I passed by I gave Jenny a quick kiss, almost not touching because she's at the age where makeup is more important than Dad, and messing up Alan's hair. He didn't even notice, just shoving sugar-laden french toast in his mouth. Two fast steps to miss the egg spilled on the floor and the pathetic my wife's toy dog eating it for breakfast, then flip the last two slices off the cook-top and onto the plate. Fork, knife (thick slice of butter while the wife isn't looking!), a dash of powered sugar, some maple syrup, scoop of eggs, another of fruit. Drop the plate on the table just in time for Sally to hand me the morning's wake up fuel.
And then eating while craziness washes around me. It's always odd how such a noisy place with so many people going about their day can yet be so alone. But it is. When you're the history teacher in high school there are no high priced lunches, no risky deals or newsworthy moments in your life. You are the solid foundation that everyone else gets to bounce off. Just like I want it.
Sally may be too plump and far too easy going for my family, but no one does french toast better, nor coffee. It's simply wonderful to wake up to a morning with good food, a happy smile and a family that is living "the life".
Looking back I can see how insufferable I was this morning. Just listening to that I can't help asking, "What were you thinking? Such a perfect gooey little domestic scene practically screams for drama. One moment, that warm scene, the rich scent of dark roast, thick smells of french toast with butter and maple and sugar, happy voices enjoying life, oblivious to what's coming next.
Then Sally turns around. The *crock* as her mug hits the floor, kids jumping, the dog skittering to the side on the tile floor. And suddenly hush! A moment of complete silence as Sally's eyes widen, the flush up her neck as a massive reaction spikes her blood, then the shriek, "Duncan!!! What the hell are you going to do?!"
For a moment, just one, I haven't a clue what she's talking about. But then the way her and the kids are staring at me finally penetrates. I look down and see something I have never seen before. Something I knew I would never see. Bright red numbers shining through my shirt. Not just a single digit, horrible as that would be. No, the number shining through my shirt had a three and enough zeros to be millions. *How the hell am I going to kill 3 million people today?* It's just unreal. Not possible. Must be a mistake. Someone has got to be pulling a prank or something.
But my thoughts went to what we were told 30 years ago when the counters were mandated flash through my head. "A human's life if looked at in four dimension would resemble a worm with endless tight loops for each day's rotation, stretching out over many circumferences as the Earth turns around the sun. And the Physicist, Dr. Melvin Harlow, who had found a way to read along the line forward and back, just enough to allow prediction. Turns out that taking a human life actually causes a disruption on the life-flow, enough of one to create a blip, measurable by the Harlow detector. The counter mandated when it was discovered it could be used to help people avoid dangerous situations. Seeing a four or eight could lead someone to drive more safely, to avoid driving under the influence. A major breakthrough it was claimed!"
*I've never seen a number on my chest. I can't breathe, can't think, don't know what to do. Surely there's a number to call? Someone who can explain why I'm suddenly seeing 3 million deaths by my choices? How can I kill that many? Not why, I have no reason to do that. But how? I'm... no one. I'm nothing special. Just a history teacher in a small town with no real enemies, no real ambitions. Just to live a good life with my wife and kids. What the hell is happening?"
When I felt Sally's hand on my arm I realized I hadn't said anything. "I don't know what's going on Sal. This is... wrong. Somethings wrong about this. I don't know what, but I'm going to, well..."
"What?" She asked. "What are you going to do? Who can you call? You know the police will take you into custody as soon as they find out."
The phone rings.
"Why would they take me into... oh, yeah, the law. Right. But I'm not..."
The phone keeps ringing. Someone really wants to talk.
"Hello?" I ask.
"I can tell by your voice Duncan that you've seen your Marlow numbers. I just wanted to call and tell you that its been fifteen years. Long, hard years. Everyday I've woken up and missed my beautiful Sally. Days you've lived with her, loved her. And kept her from me. For which you are now going to pay. I hope you burn for this Duncan, I truly do. Goodbye."
Even into the silence on the line all I could say was, "What? Who is this?" | She looked down upon her chest in disbelief. 3 million. 3 million people would die by her hand. How was she going to sneak this by the Officers? She was going to be locked up to kill and be killed.
She fumbled over to her makeup drawer for some foundation. At midnight on the first day of the month, the numbers change. Immediately afterward, the Officers come by every house to check that the number stays 0. If not, they send you to the Institution. She needed to cover this number up. And fast. She heard a car door close in her parking lot. They expect everyone to be attentive and at the door at midnight when the numbers change.
No matter what you do, the number on your chest is how many people you will kill by the end of the month. There's nothing to change it, it's fate. The Officers lock all the people with numbers higher than 0 into the Institution. It's not foolproof, there's always breakouts, there has to be, but it's the best way they know of to keep civilians out of harm's way. There have been revisions over the years, but this is the way it's been.
She rubbed the concealer all over the numbers, but they won't go away. They won't go away. This can't be happening. The pounding on the door was deafening. There's no time left. She curled up into a ball. They're breaking the door down. Make them go away. Make the numbers go away. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Hello!" I exclaimed, brimming with excitement as the delivery girl hands me my package, "Another wonderful day isn't it!"
"You know, you sure are joyful for a pathologist" she says, giving me a crooked eyebrow raise, "Just sign here"
I hastily jot my name down and scurry off to the lab with my fresh cadaver.
I can't contain myself, I'm so overjoyed when I open the box and the number 300 leers back at me. It's almost ready, my plan can be achieved tonight!
I begin the prep required for my little experiment, as I listen to the rain spluttering at my windows and the thunder knocking at my eardrums. I can't believe people kill themselves over little numbers that appear on their chest. Oh well, they have only temporarily postponed the inevitable.
The thunder continues to roar outside as my preparation is complete. 20 bodies all hooked up to the lightning conductor. 20 people who thought they could cheat the system. I'll show them! I can't stop grinning, the time has finally arrived.
It's an orchestra outside, and they are playing my favourite tune. The woodwind sections are lightly tickling my house, making it creak a wonderful amount, and the cymbals colliding with a **CRASH**. "Time to count the missi-" It was instant. the lightning had already illuminated the room. It's going perfectly, I can't help but laugh. The generator begins whirring and all the gizmos are going haywire. The bodies begin jolting as spasming around as the generator feeds them energy.
It's been about half an hour since the lightning and I'm just now wiping the tears from my eyes.
Glasses. Where are my glasses.
I pat around, feeling for where I may of placed my spectacles. Nothing. Still nothing. Something, but not glasses. In-fact they feel a bit like toes. And they aren't my toes.
"Ahh welcome back!" I shout, squinting at the body moving before me. "Hope all is w-" It was already upon me, tearing and scratching at my gut trying to find it's first meal. As it tore open my lab coat I noticed my own number had changed. How unfortunate. I won't be alive to look after all 3,000,000 bodies there are about to be lying around.
(Sorry if this is rushed) | A month and a day later...I work in quality control. It was a Monday. I was hungover. Exhausted from arguing with my girlfriend all weekend and just didn't have my head on straight. It was one stupid little black line. Just a stupid little black line missing from a stupid idiot-proofing circle on a stupid pink blow dryer. Some people say 3 million less blondes is a good thing. Some really hate me. I don't know. I know I won't argue with my girlfriend anymore. Found her in the bathtub yesterday. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Even in the world I lived in this wasn't normal. The number on my chest changed from 1 to 3......million. The numbers on our chests indicates how many people we'll kill within the next month.
It started with a phone call with my mother asking to go to lunch. Naturally I'd love to see my mother and we set up a time and place. After I'd hung up the phone, that's when the numbers changed. I should've taken the clue, but I went along with our planned events anyway. As I walked down the street I payed attention to my numbers and to not show anyone. It stayed at 3 million.
It'd already bothered me that the number was 1, but 3 million? 3 MILLION?? How could I change so I wasn't accountable for all these lives. With a sigh I sat down at the restaurant table to meet with my mother. She wasn't here yet, but I was early. I reached to grab my fork, but decided not to and put my hand down on the table. Even weirder is when I put my hand down, the number went back down to 1.
To confirm what I saw, I reached for the fork again and the number on my chest rose to 3 million. Immediately I put my hand down and The number fell back to 1. What was going on? Why the fork? Then my Mother walked in and we exchanged our hello's. Soon we ordered our food, a salad for mother and a ravioli for me. She started eating, but I sat still. I couldn't reach for the fork now, a meal wasn't worth 3 million lives.
"Pick up your fork and eat your food." Mother told me. I shook my head in reply, "I can't." She gave me a strange look and tilted her head, "Why not?" I began to tremble, why couldn't I? What was going to happen if I took the fork? I guess curiosity took the better of me.
I looked directly into my Mother's eyes and with a shaky voice I managed to tell her, "I don't know." And before I could feel the regret, I took the fork. | A month and a day later...I work in quality control. It was a Monday. I was hungover. Exhausted from arguing with my girlfriend all weekend and just didn't have my head on straight. It was one stupid little black line. Just a stupid little black line missing from a stupid idiot-proofing circle on a stupid pink blow dryer. Some people say 3 million less blondes is a good thing. Some really hate me. I don't know. I know I won't argue with my girlfriend anymore. Found her in the bathtub yesterday. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Honey, can you get the french toast? The coffee machine is taking a piss again and its all over the counter." Sally asked as I came downstairs for breakfast.
As I passed by I gave Jenny a quick kiss, almost not touching because she's at the age where makeup is more important than Dad, and messing up Alan's hair. He didn't even notice, just shoving sugar-laden french toast in his mouth. Two fast steps to miss the egg spilled on the floor and the pathetic my wife's toy dog eating it for breakfast, then flip the last two slices off the cook-top and onto the plate. Fork, knife (thick slice of butter while the wife isn't looking!), a dash of powered sugar, some maple syrup, scoop of eggs, another of fruit. Drop the plate on the table just in time for Sally to hand me the morning's wake up fuel.
And then eating while craziness washes around me. It's always odd how such a noisy place with so many people going about their day can yet be so alone. But it is. When you're the history teacher in high school there are no high priced lunches, no risky deals or newsworthy moments in your life. You are the solid foundation that everyone else gets to bounce off. Just like I want it.
Sally may be too plump and far too easy going for my family, but no one does french toast better, nor coffee. It's simply wonderful to wake up to a morning with good food, a happy smile and a family that is living "the life".
Looking back I can see how insufferable I was this morning. Just listening to that I can't help asking, "What were you thinking? Such a perfect gooey little domestic scene practically screams for drama. One moment, that warm scene, the rich scent of dark roast, thick smells of french toast with butter and maple and sugar, happy voices enjoying life, oblivious to what's coming next.
Then Sally turns around. The *crock* as her mug hits the floor, kids jumping, the dog skittering to the side on the tile floor. And suddenly hush! A moment of complete silence as Sally's eyes widen, the flush up her neck as a massive reaction spikes her blood, then the shriek, "Duncan!!! What the hell are you going to do?!"
For a moment, just one, I haven't a clue what she's talking about. But then the way her and the kids are staring at me finally penetrates. I look down and see something I have never seen before. Something I knew I would never see. Bright red numbers shining through my shirt. Not just a single digit, horrible as that would be. No, the number shining through my shirt had a three and enough zeros to be millions. *How the hell am I going to kill 3 million people today?* It's just unreal. Not possible. Must be a mistake. Someone has got to be pulling a prank or something.
But my thoughts went to what we were told 30 years ago when the counters were mandated flash through my head. "A human's life if looked at in four dimension would resemble a worm with endless tight loops for each day's rotation, stretching out over many circumferences as the Earth turns around the sun. And the Physicist, Dr. Melvin Harlow, who had found a way to read along the line forward and back, just enough to allow prediction. Turns out that taking a human life actually causes a disruption on the life-flow, enough of one to create a blip, measurable by the Harlow detector. The counter mandated when it was discovered it could be used to help people avoid dangerous situations. Seeing a four or eight could lead someone to drive more safely, to avoid driving under the influence. A major breakthrough it was claimed!"
*I've never seen a number on my chest. I can't breathe, can't think, don't know what to do. Surely there's a number to call? Someone who can explain why I'm suddenly seeing 3 million deaths by my choices? How can I kill that many? Not why, I have no reason to do that. But how? I'm... no one. I'm nothing special. Just a history teacher in a small town with no real enemies, no real ambitions. Just to live a good life with my wife and kids. What the hell is happening?"
When I felt Sally's hand on my arm I realized I hadn't said anything. "I don't know what's going on Sal. This is... wrong. Somethings wrong about this. I don't know what, but I'm going to, well..."
"What?" She asked. "What are you going to do? Who can you call? You know the police will take you into custody as soon as they find out."
The phone rings.
"Why would they take me into... oh, yeah, the law. Right. But I'm not..."
The phone keeps ringing. Someone really wants to talk.
"Hello?" I ask.
"I can tell by your voice Duncan that you've seen your Marlow numbers. I just wanted to call and tell you that its been fifteen years. Long, hard years. Everyday I've woken up and missed my beautiful Sally. Days you've lived with her, loved her. And kept her from me. For which you are now going to pay. I hope you burn for this Duncan, I truly do. Goodbye."
Even into the silence on the line all I could say was, "What? Who is this?" | A month and a day later...I work in quality control. It was a Monday. I was hungover. Exhausted from arguing with my girlfriend all weekend and just didn't have my head on straight. It was one stupid little black line. Just a stupid little black line missing from a stupid idiot-proofing circle on a stupid pink blow dryer. Some people say 3 million less blondes is a good thing. Some really hate me. I don't know. I know I won't argue with my girlfriend anymore. Found her in the bathtub yesterday. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Honey, can you get the french toast? The coffee machine is taking a piss again and its all over the counter." Sally asked as I came downstairs for breakfast.
As I passed by I gave Jenny a quick kiss, almost not touching because she's at the age where makeup is more important than Dad, and messing up Alan's hair. He didn't even notice, just shoving sugar-laden french toast in his mouth. Two fast steps to miss the egg spilled on the floor and the pathetic my wife's toy dog eating it for breakfast, then flip the last two slices off the cook-top and onto the plate. Fork, knife (thick slice of butter while the wife isn't looking!), a dash of powered sugar, some maple syrup, scoop of eggs, another of fruit. Drop the plate on the table just in time for Sally to hand me the morning's wake up fuel.
And then eating while craziness washes around me. It's always odd how such a noisy place with so many people going about their day can yet be so alone. But it is. When you're the history teacher in high school there are no high priced lunches, no risky deals or newsworthy moments in your life. You are the solid foundation that everyone else gets to bounce off. Just like I want it.
Sally may be too plump and far too easy going for my family, but no one does french toast better, nor coffee. It's simply wonderful to wake up to a morning with good food, a happy smile and a family that is living "the life".
Looking back I can see how insufferable I was this morning. Just listening to that I can't help asking, "What were you thinking? Such a perfect gooey little domestic scene practically screams for drama. One moment, that warm scene, the rich scent of dark roast, thick smells of french toast with butter and maple and sugar, happy voices enjoying life, oblivious to what's coming next.
Then Sally turns around. The *crock* as her mug hits the floor, kids jumping, the dog skittering to the side on the tile floor. And suddenly hush! A moment of complete silence as Sally's eyes widen, the flush up her neck as a massive reaction spikes her blood, then the shriek, "Duncan!!! What the hell are you going to do?!"
For a moment, just one, I haven't a clue what she's talking about. But then the way her and the kids are staring at me finally penetrates. I look down and see something I have never seen before. Something I knew I would never see. Bright red numbers shining through my shirt. Not just a single digit, horrible as that would be. No, the number shining through my shirt had a three and enough zeros to be millions. *How the hell am I going to kill 3 million people today?* It's just unreal. Not possible. Must be a mistake. Someone has got to be pulling a prank or something.
But my thoughts went to what we were told 30 years ago when the counters were mandated flash through my head. "A human's life if looked at in four dimension would resemble a worm with endless tight loops for each day's rotation, stretching out over many circumferences as the Earth turns around the sun. And the Physicist, Dr. Melvin Harlow, who had found a way to read along the line forward and back, just enough to allow prediction. Turns out that taking a human life actually causes a disruption on the life-flow, enough of one to create a blip, measurable by the Harlow detector. The counter mandated when it was discovered it could be used to help people avoid dangerous situations. Seeing a four or eight could lead someone to drive more safely, to avoid driving under the influence. A major breakthrough it was claimed!"
*I've never seen a number on my chest. I can't breathe, can't think, don't know what to do. Surely there's a number to call? Someone who can explain why I'm suddenly seeing 3 million deaths by my choices? How can I kill that many? Not why, I have no reason to do that. But how? I'm... no one. I'm nothing special. Just a history teacher in a small town with no real enemies, no real ambitions. Just to live a good life with my wife and kids. What the hell is happening?"
When I felt Sally's hand on my arm I realized I hadn't said anything. "I don't know what's going on Sal. This is... wrong. Somethings wrong about this. I don't know what, but I'm going to, well..."
"What?" She asked. "What are you going to do? Who can you call? You know the police will take you into custody as soon as they find out."
The phone rings.
"Why would they take me into... oh, yeah, the law. Right. But I'm not..."
The phone keeps ringing. Someone really wants to talk.
"Hello?" I ask.
"I can tell by your voice Duncan that you've seen your Marlow numbers. I just wanted to call and tell you that its been fifteen years. Long, hard years. Everyday I've woken up and missed my beautiful Sally. Days you've lived with her, loved her. And kept her from me. For which you are now going to pay. I hope you burn for this Duncan, I truly do. Goodbye."
Even into the silence on the line all I could say was, "What? Who is this?" | Strange how a number can define a life. A man laid sprawled out on a beat up leather couch, his dishevelled hair falling across a fevered brow flushed with colour. He groaned in his sleep, shifting slightly into the universal position that signalled piss drunk, face down with one arm hanging limply as his fingertips grazed the floor. As his throat constricts around the ball of vomit rising within him he let out an awful retching noise that finally stirred him from a fruitless slumber. How much did I drink last night? Pieces of broken memories flickered and took shape in his mind. Dan's white washed apartment. That brunette chick with the huge tits. Those tacky shot glasses they bought in Mexico. And.. that guy with the little white baggy, some pills he'd never heard of before. Who was he? What was it called?
He swallowed compulsively forcing the bile down, his tongue feeling fuzzy and swollen in his mouth as he tried to roll over and only succeeded in tumbling onto the floor with a thud. “Shit.” The groan left his mouth in a dry rasp as he curled in on himself, aware now of a deep, slow burning pain in his stomach. Bloodshot blue eyes fluttered open as he stared around his apartment, trying to focus on something real, tangible in an attempt to get his bearings. Shuttered light filtered dreamily across one wall and half of the ceiling, dappling the dark room like a baby fawns back. “Whats.. Whats wrong with me?” He croaked, hissing as the waves of pain intensified.
Scrambling together every last ounce of strength within himself, the man pulled himself up into a hunched position, his bare legs scratching against the cheap beige carpet. It's only then that he notices the cracked and damp trail of rust tattooed like flakey rivers down right arm and side, staining the clammy freckled skin. With a jolt of panic his hands flew to his chest, his throat, his ears, his nose, inspecting for injury. He realized his fingers were trembling, no his whole body, as his hands came away wet with blood, the overpowering metallic scent filling his nostrils. And something else, something much more sinister, the smell of rot.
He cried out and struggled to his hands and knees, then slowly lurched foreword, a half formed bloody handprint left smudged in the ugly beige carpet. It took everything in him to run to the bathroom, occasionally leaning against a wall for support as another surge of pain arced through his body like a conductor. When he flicked on the bathroom lights the florescence blinded him and it took a moment of frantically blinking before a distorted version of himself appeared in the mirror opposite him. The man looked like an apparition, a ghostly harbinger of death with his skin the colour of soured milk, his eyes glassy and sunken. In stark contrast to this washed out complexion was the dark smattering of blood that trailed from his ears, down his neck and twisted around his arms like bulging veins. But it wasn't this horrific visage that caused his sharp intake of breath, nor was it the increasing pulses of searing pain throughout his body.
It was the number three and six subsequent zeroes that followed. 3 million. The number felt heavy against his narrow, heaving chest. “No fucking way!” He whined, rocking with silent disbelief, his fingers weakly scratching at the big black numbers imprinted on his skin, as if he could erase them. But it had been a one yesterday! Hell it had never been higher than a ten in all his life, how could this happen? Why was this happening? He would kill 3 million people. The truth settled around him like an icy shroud. But he could do something right? He could get help! He could change this somehow.. couldn’t he?
The man stumbled out into the busy street, daylight highlighting the solemn black number on his chest as he pushed people aside, a grim trail of bloody handprints and spittle carving through the New York crowds in his wake. “Help! I'm not a killer! Someone help!” His scream was accompanied by a spray of blood, as he choked and spluttered on his words, falling to his knees in the street as a crowd of curious and disgusted people gathered around to watch. Eyes heavy, his head bobbed and swayed as his fevered eyes take in their last sight. Dan stands among the blurred, faceless bystanders, and curled in his hand is the baggy full of pills. But it isn't the drugs from last night that cause the mans soundless scream of horror, nor is it the sudden cacophony of coughing and spluttering from the people around him.
It's the number stamped in finality on Dan's chest. It's the number 3 million and one. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Honey, can you get the french toast? The coffee machine is taking a piss again and its all over the counter." Sally asked as I came downstairs for breakfast.
As I passed by I gave Jenny a quick kiss, almost not touching because she's at the age where makeup is more important than Dad, and messing up Alan's hair. He didn't even notice, just shoving sugar-laden french toast in his mouth. Two fast steps to miss the egg spilled on the floor and the pathetic my wife's toy dog eating it for breakfast, then flip the last two slices off the cook-top and onto the plate. Fork, knife (thick slice of butter while the wife isn't looking!), a dash of powered sugar, some maple syrup, scoop of eggs, another of fruit. Drop the plate on the table just in time for Sally to hand me the morning's wake up fuel.
And then eating while craziness washes around me. It's always odd how such a noisy place with so many people going about their day can yet be so alone. But it is. When you're the history teacher in high school there are no high priced lunches, no risky deals or newsworthy moments in your life. You are the solid foundation that everyone else gets to bounce off. Just like I want it.
Sally may be too plump and far too easy going for my family, but no one does french toast better, nor coffee. It's simply wonderful to wake up to a morning with good food, a happy smile and a family that is living "the life".
Looking back I can see how insufferable I was this morning. Just listening to that I can't help asking, "What were you thinking? Such a perfect gooey little domestic scene practically screams for drama. One moment, that warm scene, the rich scent of dark roast, thick smells of french toast with butter and maple and sugar, happy voices enjoying life, oblivious to what's coming next.
Then Sally turns around. The *crock* as her mug hits the floor, kids jumping, the dog skittering to the side on the tile floor. And suddenly hush! A moment of complete silence as Sally's eyes widen, the flush up her neck as a massive reaction spikes her blood, then the shriek, "Duncan!!! What the hell are you going to do?!"
For a moment, just one, I haven't a clue what she's talking about. But then the way her and the kids are staring at me finally penetrates. I look down and see something I have never seen before. Something I knew I would never see. Bright red numbers shining through my shirt. Not just a single digit, horrible as that would be. No, the number shining through my shirt had a three and enough zeros to be millions. *How the hell am I going to kill 3 million people today?* It's just unreal. Not possible. Must be a mistake. Someone has got to be pulling a prank or something.
But my thoughts went to what we were told 30 years ago when the counters were mandated flash through my head. "A human's life if looked at in four dimension would resemble a worm with endless tight loops for each day's rotation, stretching out over many circumferences as the Earth turns around the sun. And the Physicist, Dr. Melvin Harlow, who had found a way to read along the line forward and back, just enough to allow prediction. Turns out that taking a human life actually causes a disruption on the life-flow, enough of one to create a blip, measurable by the Harlow detector. The counter mandated when it was discovered it could be used to help people avoid dangerous situations. Seeing a four or eight could lead someone to drive more safely, to avoid driving under the influence. A major breakthrough it was claimed!"
*I've never seen a number on my chest. I can't breathe, can't think, don't know what to do. Surely there's a number to call? Someone who can explain why I'm suddenly seeing 3 million deaths by my choices? How can I kill that many? Not why, I have no reason to do that. But how? I'm... no one. I'm nothing special. Just a history teacher in a small town with no real enemies, no real ambitions. Just to live a good life with my wife and kids. What the hell is happening?"
When I felt Sally's hand on my arm I realized I hadn't said anything. "I don't know what's going on Sal. This is... wrong. Somethings wrong about this. I don't know what, but I'm going to, well..."
"What?" She asked. "What are you going to do? Who can you call? You know the police will take you into custody as soon as they find out."
The phone rings.
"Why would they take me into... oh, yeah, the law. Right. But I'm not..."
The phone keeps ringing. Someone really wants to talk.
"Hello?" I ask.
"I can tell by your voice Duncan that you've seen your Marlow numbers. I just wanted to call and tell you that its been fifteen years. Long, hard years. Everyday I've woken up and missed my beautiful Sally. Days you've lived with her, loved her. And kept her from me. For which you are now going to pay. I hope you burn for this Duncan, I truly do. Goodbye."
Even into the silence on the line all I could say was, "What? Who is this?" | "Wash your hands" they say, "Follow protocol" they say.
Fuck those guys, I know what I'm doing.
It still seems like a dream, or a nightmare, but they all went so quietly. Peacefully off in their sleep, or just, sitting in a chair. The bad ones were driving, or operating equipment. The pilots were the worst, I suppose, but I didn't see or hear any of that in person, only the news reports, that were still filtering in from the places where there were still people who knew how to run the machines, and even that died off as they did.
The number had been at Zero for as long as I could remember, like most everyone else. When it changed to a one, I told nobody, from fear, embarrassment, confusion, I thought it might mean a car crash, or an accident of some kind. What was to come was beyond imagining. The accuracy of the numbers had never been questioned, and I still don't know who, or what, controls it, and can see the future like that. Must be a God, or a Scientist or something, Maybe it's Time Travelers? I may never know.
We knew it was the Flu, but we weren't sure which strain it was until it was too late. When I woke up the number had changed, I didn't feel anything, and when I saw it, I thought I was hallucinating. "That can't be right." I said to the mirror. Briefly, I debated going to work to see what the others thought of it, but quickly realized that was a bad idea. No good could come of it.
The number was somewhere around three million, it changed while I was looking at it, steadily rising, and not showing any sign of stopping. When I stepped out onto the street, it was clear that it had already begun. It was Eight O'clock in the Morning, on a Tuesday, but the whole city was eerily quiet. The dead were everywhere, and the living were either in shock, or dying, or silently hoping, like me, that it was all a dream.
"Wash your hands" they said, ""Follow protocol" they said.
Fuck me.
| |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Natural death ceased at 8:49 pm August 17 2016. Five years later, and the eggheads still have no clue why. You can get shot, stabbed, dropped off a 50 story building but no matter what you live. Alive with excruciating pain, but alive regardless. Except.... except sometimes.
Subatomic Longform Actualized Yttriated Energy Resonance events, or S.L.A.Y.E.R events if you lack a PHD. The long and short of it is, whatever causes this immortality has brief holes. Holes you can track with a $69.99 yttrium based implant. Holes that can give you your 15 minutes of fame. Or technically 30 days if you want to be totally accurate.
Once that timer ticks up, baby, you are on the every ones hot list. Celebrities itching to die offer you resorts, drugs, and sex. Elderly sports stars showing you their well practiced moves even as their ancient joints grind together. Every 5 star restaurant and Hottest night club wants you to off your destined victim in their "pristine establishment". That's how I ended up in the V.I.P. lounge at 22 Below casually chatting with Dr. Reinaldo while trying not to stare at his wife's fake DD's.
"You know, you may be the only person who's met more than one slayer before... Care to share any advice before I become a murder?" I joked.
Christopher's face sharply changed from jovial to a darker, hushed shell of what it was.
"Yes. Don't let your number raise higher than one."
"That's a myth. No one has confirmed a slay count higher than one."
"Tell that to the experiments in the basement of the state department."
His steady gaze held mine for far too long before he broke into a nervous laugh.
" I'm kidding of course." he said, utterly failing to convince me he was.
"Your sense of humor makes me sick doc, even I do owe your implant my recent windfall. Which way is the head?"
He pointed me to to a hallway off the private room, opposite the throngs of revelers below. As I washed my hands in the ivory sink opposite the frosted glass stall, I looked into the silver-inlaid mirror and checked my implant out of compulsion. I exclaimed the three words I had abused and overused my whole life.
"God DAMN IT!"
I was going to kill 3,553,982 people. And I was going to be a hero for it, assuming I didn't end up in pieces on some cold slab in Dr. Reinaldo's Lab. Leaving the bathroom, I pulled the fire alarm and quietly slipped out of the frying pan...
------------------------------------------------------------------------
May Continue Later
| I had made up my mind. It was over. No more hemming and hawing. When my wife died a part of me had died with her. I just couldn't keep going on. I looked down at my chest. Yup. There it was. One. And I knew exactly who it was going to be. Me.
It's oddly freeing to know when your time is up. You can detach from the everyday worries and just be... Free. I waltzed through the next week, skipping work, maxing out credit cards and eating like there was no tomorrow. I even briefly entertained the thought of burning down my house.
Every morning I woke up and took a quick peek at my chest. One. I was walking on air. Until worked called. I thought about telling my boss where he could stick that job, but I noticed in the mirror that my one had become a zero. I didn't remember changing my mind, but maybe something at work was about to make me want to live. People had been telling me for months that Gina would've wanted me to be happy.
So against my better judgement and really, just out of morbid curiosity I went to work. The drive was just as infuriating, the walls, the same dull shade of beige, my coworkers the same insipid morons. Nothing had changed. Why had my number.
I sat down at my console and started my day, one of many more it seemed. I pulled open my shirt to look again, maybe I'd misread my number. But no, there it was, mocking me. Zero. But there was... More? I slid my shirt further open. More zeros. Why so many? If I wasn't going to kill anyone, there was normally only one zero.
Three. Three million? Three million people dead because of me? No. No no no no no! That's not what I wanted. I just wanted to die. To be free of this constant pain. I didn't want anyone else to suffer.
I got up in a daze and wandered out of my cubicle. The normal chatter and bustle of the office died off as first one then another spotted the number emblazoned on my chest. I hadn't bothered to button it back up. There was a scream and people started running. It was just a dull roar in my ears. Were they part of the three million? Did it matter?
So many thoughts ran through my head as I walked, and people ran screaming from the sight of me. I didn't want to hurt other people. I didn't want to be responsible for their suffering. I just wanted out. It's not like life was mandatory, was it?
The police. Of course someone had called the cops. If I had seen a person with three million on their chest, I would've called the cops, too.
"Officers, I am unarmed, but I assume that I'm extremely dangerous." The voice is mine, but the words sound so calm. "For the safety of three million people, please shoot me and be quick about it."
The cops are confused. I can't say I don't empathize. I'm confused. Three million. They order me to stay put. News crews are on the scene and I can overhear that they are evacuating the city. I look down at my number. It hasn't changed. I do the only thing I can think of. I rush one of the police officers. I picked him the moment they stopped me. The one who's hand went to his chest when he saw me. I must be there, as part of his number. He knew he would have to kill me. Maybe, just maybe he can save all these people.
I almost didn't hear the bang. And then, nothing.
#####
"Channel 5 reporting on the grisly scene today as a mass murderer was gunned down by city police. The highest kill number ever recorded was seen today when Chad Moore reportedly opened his shirt and caused a massive riot at the software company where he worked. According to witnesses, Mr. Moore had been despondent since the death of his wife just a few months back.
"Reports are starting to come in that due to the mass panic caused by Mr. Moore's number, there are several people injured and many more dead. We're also receiving word about a religious cult that took the Moore number as a sign from their prophet to kill themselves. There's is still rioting and general mayhem on the streets at this hour and though we don't know for certain, we are expecting the final tally to be in the millions." | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Honey, can you get the french toast? The coffee machine is taking a piss again and its all over the counter." Sally asked as I came downstairs for breakfast.
As I passed by I gave Jenny a quick kiss, almost not touching because she's at the age where makeup is more important than Dad, and messing up Alan's hair. He didn't even notice, just shoving sugar-laden french toast in his mouth. Two fast steps to miss the egg spilled on the floor and the pathetic my wife's toy dog eating it for breakfast, then flip the last two slices off the cook-top and onto the plate. Fork, knife (thick slice of butter while the wife isn't looking!), a dash of powered sugar, some maple syrup, scoop of eggs, another of fruit. Drop the plate on the table just in time for Sally to hand me the morning's wake up fuel.
And then eating while craziness washes around me. It's always odd how such a noisy place with so many people going about their day can yet be so alone. But it is. When you're the history teacher in high school there are no high priced lunches, no risky deals or newsworthy moments in your life. You are the solid foundation that everyone else gets to bounce off. Just like I want it.
Sally may be too plump and far too easy going for my family, but no one does french toast better, nor coffee. It's simply wonderful to wake up to a morning with good food, a happy smile and a family that is living "the life".
Looking back I can see how insufferable I was this morning. Just listening to that I can't help asking, "What were you thinking? Such a perfect gooey little domestic scene practically screams for drama. One moment, that warm scene, the rich scent of dark roast, thick smells of french toast with butter and maple and sugar, happy voices enjoying life, oblivious to what's coming next.
Then Sally turns around. The *crock* as her mug hits the floor, kids jumping, the dog skittering to the side on the tile floor. And suddenly hush! A moment of complete silence as Sally's eyes widen, the flush up her neck as a massive reaction spikes her blood, then the shriek, "Duncan!!! What the hell are you going to do?!"
For a moment, just one, I haven't a clue what she's talking about. But then the way her and the kids are staring at me finally penetrates. I look down and see something I have never seen before. Something I knew I would never see. Bright red numbers shining through my shirt. Not just a single digit, horrible as that would be. No, the number shining through my shirt had a three and enough zeros to be millions. *How the hell am I going to kill 3 million people today?* It's just unreal. Not possible. Must be a mistake. Someone has got to be pulling a prank or something.
But my thoughts went to what we were told 30 years ago when the counters were mandated flash through my head. "A human's life if looked at in four dimension would resemble a worm with endless tight loops for each day's rotation, stretching out over many circumferences as the Earth turns around the sun. And the Physicist, Dr. Melvin Harlow, who had found a way to read along the line forward and back, just enough to allow prediction. Turns out that taking a human life actually causes a disruption on the life-flow, enough of one to create a blip, measurable by the Harlow detector. The counter mandated when it was discovered it could be used to help people avoid dangerous situations. Seeing a four or eight could lead someone to drive more safely, to avoid driving under the influence. A major breakthrough it was claimed!"
*I've never seen a number on my chest. I can't breathe, can't think, don't know what to do. Surely there's a number to call? Someone who can explain why I'm suddenly seeing 3 million deaths by my choices? How can I kill that many? Not why, I have no reason to do that. But how? I'm... no one. I'm nothing special. Just a history teacher in a small town with no real enemies, no real ambitions. Just to live a good life with my wife and kids. What the hell is happening?"
When I felt Sally's hand on my arm I realized I hadn't said anything. "I don't know what's going on Sal. This is... wrong. Somethings wrong about this. I don't know what, but I'm going to, well..."
"What?" She asked. "What are you going to do? Who can you call? You know the police will take you into custody as soon as they find out."
The phone rings.
"Why would they take me into... oh, yeah, the law. Right. But I'm not..."
The phone keeps ringing. Someone really wants to talk.
"Hello?" I ask.
"I can tell by your voice Duncan that you've seen your Marlow numbers. I just wanted to call and tell you that its been fifteen years. Long, hard years. Everyday I've woken up and missed my beautiful Sally. Days you've lived with her, loved her. And kept her from me. For which you are now going to pay. I hope you burn for this Duncan, I truly do. Goodbye."
Even into the silence on the line all I could say was, "What? Who is this?" | I had made up my mind. It was over. No more hemming and hawing. When my wife died a part of me had died with her. I just couldn't keep going on. I looked down at my chest. Yup. There it was. One. And I knew exactly who it was going to be. Me.
It's oddly freeing to know when your time is up. You can detach from the everyday worries and just be... Free. I waltzed through the next week, skipping work, maxing out credit cards and eating like there was no tomorrow. I even briefly entertained the thought of burning down my house.
Every morning I woke up and took a quick peek at my chest. One. I was walking on air. Until worked called. I thought about telling my boss where he could stick that job, but I noticed in the mirror that my one had become a zero. I didn't remember changing my mind, but maybe something at work was about to make me want to live. People had been telling me for months that Gina would've wanted me to be happy.
So against my better judgement and really, just out of morbid curiosity I went to work. The drive was just as infuriating, the walls, the same dull shade of beige, my coworkers the same insipid morons. Nothing had changed. Why had my number.
I sat down at my console and started my day, one of many more it seemed. I pulled open my shirt to look again, maybe I'd misread my number. But no, there it was, mocking me. Zero. But there was... More? I slid my shirt further open. More zeros. Why so many? If I wasn't going to kill anyone, there was normally only one zero.
Three. Three million? Three million people dead because of me? No. No no no no no! That's not what I wanted. I just wanted to die. To be free of this constant pain. I didn't want anyone else to suffer.
I got up in a daze and wandered out of my cubicle. The normal chatter and bustle of the office died off as first one then another spotted the number emblazoned on my chest. I hadn't bothered to button it back up. There was a scream and people started running. It was just a dull roar in my ears. Were they part of the three million? Did it matter?
So many thoughts ran through my head as I walked, and people ran screaming from the sight of me. I didn't want to hurt other people. I didn't want to be responsible for their suffering. I just wanted out. It's not like life was mandatory, was it?
The police. Of course someone had called the cops. If I had seen a person with three million on their chest, I would've called the cops, too.
"Officers, I am unarmed, but I assume that I'm extremely dangerous." The voice is mine, but the words sound so calm. "For the safety of three million people, please shoot me and be quick about it."
The cops are confused. I can't say I don't empathize. I'm confused. Three million. They order me to stay put. News crews are on the scene and I can overhear that they are evacuating the city. I look down at my number. It hasn't changed. I do the only thing I can think of. I rush one of the police officers. I picked him the moment they stopped me. The one who's hand went to his chest when he saw me. I must be there, as part of his number. He knew he would have to kill me. Maybe, just maybe he can save all these people.
I almost didn't hear the bang. And then, nothing.
#####
"Channel 5 reporting on the grisly scene today as a mass murderer was gunned down by city police. The highest kill number ever recorded was seen today when Chad Moore reportedly opened his shirt and caused a massive riot at the software company where he worked. According to witnesses, Mr. Moore had been despondent since the death of his wife just a few months back.
"Reports are starting to come in that due to the mass panic caused by Mr. Moore's number, there are several people injured and many more dead. We're also receiving word about a religious cult that took the Moore number as a sign from their prophet to kill themselves. There's is still rioting and general mayhem on the streets at this hour and though we don't know for certain, we are expecting the final tally to be in the millions." | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Natural death ceased at 8:49 pm August 17 2016. Five years later, and the eggheads still have no clue why. You can get shot, stabbed, dropped off a 50 story building but no matter what you live. Alive with excruciating pain, but alive regardless. Except.... except sometimes.
Subatomic Longform Actualized Yttriated Energy Resonance events, or S.L.A.Y.E.R events if you lack a PHD. The long and short of it is, whatever causes this immortality has brief holes. Holes you can track with a $69.99 yttrium based implant. Holes that can give you your 15 minutes of fame. Or technically 30 days if you want to be totally accurate.
Once that timer ticks up, baby, you are on the every ones hot list. Celebrities itching to die offer you resorts, drugs, and sex. Elderly sports stars showing you their well practiced moves even as their ancient joints grind together. Every 5 star restaurant and Hottest night club wants you to off your destined victim in their "pristine establishment". That's how I ended up in the V.I.P. lounge at 22 Below casually chatting with Dr. Reinaldo while trying not to stare at his wife's fake DD's.
"You know, you may be the only person who's met more than one slayer before... Care to share any advice before I become a murder?" I joked.
Christopher's face sharply changed from jovial to a darker, hushed shell of what it was.
"Yes. Don't let your number raise higher than one."
"That's a myth. No one has confirmed a slay count higher than one."
"Tell that to the experiments in the basement of the state department."
His steady gaze held mine for far too long before he broke into a nervous laugh.
" I'm kidding of course." he said, utterly failing to convince me he was.
"Your sense of humor makes me sick doc, even I do owe your implant my recent windfall. Which way is the head?"
He pointed me to to a hallway off the private room, opposite the throngs of revelers below. As I washed my hands in the ivory sink opposite the frosted glass stall, I looked into the silver-inlaid mirror and checked my implant out of compulsion. I exclaimed the three words I had abused and overused my whole life.
"God DAMN IT!"
I was going to kill 3,553,982 people. And I was going to be a hero for it, assuming I didn't end up in pieces on some cold slab in Dr. Reinaldo's Lab. Leaving the bathroom, I pulled the fire alarm and quietly slipped out of the frying pan...
------------------------------------------------------------------------
May Continue Later
| I've been working on it for so long.
This vaccine - this cure. Encephalopathy, beaten back again. Zika, cured.
And I'm going to present it in Vienna next week, the ninth -
It's fucking morning of the first, twelve-oh-two, and the black brand on my chest says three million seven hundred and eighty thousand six hundred and nine.
How? It should - I'm going to save so many lives -
And there must be something wrong, I must have done something wrong, some poison or -
I don't know.
My father loved to hunt. Upstairs, in a locked box, I have his rifle... It will be messy, but Jane will understand when she sees. They all will.
It hurts, but only for a moment.
*And now there's no one to present in Vienna.* | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Honey, can you get the french toast? The coffee machine is taking a piss again and its all over the counter." Sally asked as I came downstairs for breakfast.
As I passed by I gave Jenny a quick kiss, almost not touching because she's at the age where makeup is more important than Dad, and messing up Alan's hair. He didn't even notice, just shoving sugar-laden french toast in his mouth. Two fast steps to miss the egg spilled on the floor and the pathetic my wife's toy dog eating it for breakfast, then flip the last two slices off the cook-top and onto the plate. Fork, knife (thick slice of butter while the wife isn't looking!), a dash of powered sugar, some maple syrup, scoop of eggs, another of fruit. Drop the plate on the table just in time for Sally to hand me the morning's wake up fuel.
And then eating while craziness washes around me. It's always odd how such a noisy place with so many people going about their day can yet be so alone. But it is. When you're the history teacher in high school there are no high priced lunches, no risky deals or newsworthy moments in your life. You are the solid foundation that everyone else gets to bounce off. Just like I want it.
Sally may be too plump and far too easy going for my family, but no one does french toast better, nor coffee. It's simply wonderful to wake up to a morning with good food, a happy smile and a family that is living "the life".
Looking back I can see how insufferable I was this morning. Just listening to that I can't help asking, "What were you thinking? Such a perfect gooey little domestic scene practically screams for drama. One moment, that warm scene, the rich scent of dark roast, thick smells of french toast with butter and maple and sugar, happy voices enjoying life, oblivious to what's coming next.
Then Sally turns around. The *crock* as her mug hits the floor, kids jumping, the dog skittering to the side on the tile floor. And suddenly hush! A moment of complete silence as Sally's eyes widen, the flush up her neck as a massive reaction spikes her blood, then the shriek, "Duncan!!! What the hell are you going to do?!"
For a moment, just one, I haven't a clue what she's talking about. But then the way her and the kids are staring at me finally penetrates. I look down and see something I have never seen before. Something I knew I would never see. Bright red numbers shining through my shirt. Not just a single digit, horrible as that would be. No, the number shining through my shirt had a three and enough zeros to be millions. *How the hell am I going to kill 3 million people today?* It's just unreal. Not possible. Must be a mistake. Someone has got to be pulling a prank or something.
But my thoughts went to what we were told 30 years ago when the counters were mandated flash through my head. "A human's life if looked at in four dimension would resemble a worm with endless tight loops for each day's rotation, stretching out over many circumferences as the Earth turns around the sun. And the Physicist, Dr. Melvin Harlow, who had found a way to read along the line forward and back, just enough to allow prediction. Turns out that taking a human life actually causes a disruption on the life-flow, enough of one to create a blip, measurable by the Harlow detector. The counter mandated when it was discovered it could be used to help people avoid dangerous situations. Seeing a four or eight could lead someone to drive more safely, to avoid driving under the influence. A major breakthrough it was claimed!"
*I've never seen a number on my chest. I can't breathe, can't think, don't know what to do. Surely there's a number to call? Someone who can explain why I'm suddenly seeing 3 million deaths by my choices? How can I kill that many? Not why, I have no reason to do that. But how? I'm... no one. I'm nothing special. Just a history teacher in a small town with no real enemies, no real ambitions. Just to live a good life with my wife and kids. What the hell is happening?"
When I felt Sally's hand on my arm I realized I hadn't said anything. "I don't know what's going on Sal. This is... wrong. Somethings wrong about this. I don't know what, but I'm going to, well..."
"What?" She asked. "What are you going to do? Who can you call? You know the police will take you into custody as soon as they find out."
The phone rings.
"Why would they take me into... oh, yeah, the law. Right. But I'm not..."
The phone keeps ringing. Someone really wants to talk.
"Hello?" I ask.
"I can tell by your voice Duncan that you've seen your Marlow numbers. I just wanted to call and tell you that its been fifteen years. Long, hard years. Everyday I've woken up and missed my beautiful Sally. Days you've lived with her, loved her. And kept her from me. For which you are now going to pay. I hope you burn for this Duncan, I truly do. Goodbye."
Even into the silence on the line all I could say was, "What? Who is this?" | I've been working on it for so long.
This vaccine - this cure. Encephalopathy, beaten back again. Zika, cured.
And I'm going to present it in Vienna next week, the ninth -
It's fucking morning of the first, twelve-oh-two, and the black brand on my chest says three million seven hundred and eighty thousand six hundred and nine.
How? It should - I'm going to save so many lives -
And there must be something wrong, I must have done something wrong, some poison or -
I don't know.
My father loved to hunt. Upstairs, in a locked box, I have his rifle... It will be messy, but Jane will understand when she sees. They all will.
It hurts, but only for a moment.
*And now there's no one to present in Vienna.* | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Honey, can you get the french toast? The coffee machine is taking a piss again and its all over the counter." Sally asked as I came downstairs for breakfast.
As I passed by I gave Jenny a quick kiss, almost not touching because she's at the age where makeup is more important than Dad, and messing up Alan's hair. He didn't even notice, just shoving sugar-laden french toast in his mouth. Two fast steps to miss the egg spilled on the floor and the pathetic my wife's toy dog eating it for breakfast, then flip the last two slices off the cook-top and onto the plate. Fork, knife (thick slice of butter while the wife isn't looking!), a dash of powered sugar, some maple syrup, scoop of eggs, another of fruit. Drop the plate on the table just in time for Sally to hand me the morning's wake up fuel.
And then eating while craziness washes around me. It's always odd how such a noisy place with so many people going about their day can yet be so alone. But it is. When you're the history teacher in high school there are no high priced lunches, no risky deals or newsworthy moments in your life. You are the solid foundation that everyone else gets to bounce off. Just like I want it.
Sally may be too plump and far too easy going for my family, but no one does french toast better, nor coffee. It's simply wonderful to wake up to a morning with good food, a happy smile and a family that is living "the life".
Looking back I can see how insufferable I was this morning. Just listening to that I can't help asking, "What were you thinking? Such a perfect gooey little domestic scene practically screams for drama. One moment, that warm scene, the rich scent of dark roast, thick smells of french toast with butter and maple and sugar, happy voices enjoying life, oblivious to what's coming next.
Then Sally turns around. The *crock* as her mug hits the floor, kids jumping, the dog skittering to the side on the tile floor. And suddenly hush! A moment of complete silence as Sally's eyes widen, the flush up her neck as a massive reaction spikes her blood, then the shriek, "Duncan!!! What the hell are you going to do?!"
For a moment, just one, I haven't a clue what she's talking about. But then the way her and the kids are staring at me finally penetrates. I look down and see something I have never seen before. Something I knew I would never see. Bright red numbers shining through my shirt. Not just a single digit, horrible as that would be. No, the number shining through my shirt had a three and enough zeros to be millions. *How the hell am I going to kill 3 million people today?* It's just unreal. Not possible. Must be a mistake. Someone has got to be pulling a prank or something.
But my thoughts went to what we were told 30 years ago when the counters were mandated flash through my head. "A human's life if looked at in four dimension would resemble a worm with endless tight loops for each day's rotation, stretching out over many circumferences as the Earth turns around the sun. And the Physicist, Dr. Melvin Harlow, who had found a way to read along the line forward and back, just enough to allow prediction. Turns out that taking a human life actually causes a disruption on the life-flow, enough of one to create a blip, measurable by the Harlow detector. The counter mandated when it was discovered it could be used to help people avoid dangerous situations. Seeing a four or eight could lead someone to drive more safely, to avoid driving under the influence. A major breakthrough it was claimed!"
*I've never seen a number on my chest. I can't breathe, can't think, don't know what to do. Surely there's a number to call? Someone who can explain why I'm suddenly seeing 3 million deaths by my choices? How can I kill that many? Not why, I have no reason to do that. But how? I'm... no one. I'm nothing special. Just a history teacher in a small town with no real enemies, no real ambitions. Just to live a good life with my wife and kids. What the hell is happening?"
When I felt Sally's hand on my arm I realized I hadn't said anything. "I don't know what's going on Sal. This is... wrong. Somethings wrong about this. I don't know what, but I'm going to, well..."
"What?" She asked. "What are you going to do? Who can you call? You know the police will take you into custody as soon as they find out."
The phone rings.
"Why would they take me into... oh, yeah, the law. Right. But I'm not..."
The phone keeps ringing. Someone really wants to talk.
"Hello?" I ask.
"I can tell by your voice Duncan that you've seen your Marlow numbers. I just wanted to call and tell you that its been fifteen years. Long, hard years. Everyday I've woken up and missed my beautiful Sally. Days you've lived with her, loved her. And kept her from me. For which you are now going to pay. I hope you burn for this Duncan, I truly do. Goodbye."
Even into the silence on the line all I could say was, "What? Who is this?" | "Hello!" I exclaimed, brimming with excitement as the delivery girl hands me my package, "Another wonderful day isn't it!"
"You know, you sure are joyful for a pathologist" she says, giving me a crooked eyebrow raise, "Just sign here"
I hastily jot my name down and scurry off to the lab with my fresh cadaver.
I can't contain myself, I'm so overjoyed when I open the box and the number 300 leers back at me. It's almost ready, my plan can be achieved tonight!
I begin the prep required for my little experiment, as I listen to the rain spluttering at my windows and the thunder knocking at my eardrums. I can't believe people kill themselves over little numbers that appear on their chest. Oh well, they have only temporarily postponed the inevitable.
The thunder continues to roar outside as my preparation is complete. 20 bodies all hooked up to the lightning conductor. 20 people who thought they could cheat the system. I'll show them! I can't stop grinning, the time has finally arrived.
It's an orchestra outside, and they are playing my favourite tune. The woodwind sections are lightly tickling my house, making it creak a wonderful amount, and the cymbals colliding with a **CRASH**. "Time to count the missi-" It was instant. the lightning had already illuminated the room. It's going perfectly, I can't help but laugh. The generator begins whirring and all the gizmos are going haywire. The bodies begin jolting as spasming around as the generator feeds them energy.
It's been about half an hour since the lightning and I'm just now wiping the tears from my eyes.
Glasses. Where are my glasses.
I pat around, feeling for where I may of placed my spectacles. Nothing. Still nothing. Something, but not glasses. In-fact they feel a bit like toes. And they aren't my toes.
"Ahh welcome back!" I shout, squinting at the body moving before me. "Hope all is w-" It was already upon me, tearing and scratching at my gut trying to find it's first meal. As it tore open my lab coat I noticed my own number had changed. How unfortunate. I won't be alive to look after all 3,000,000 bodies there are about to be lying around.
(Sorry if this is rushed) | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Honey, can you get the french toast? The coffee machine is taking a piss again and its all over the counter." Sally asked as I came downstairs for breakfast.
As I passed by I gave Jenny a quick kiss, almost not touching because she's at the age where makeup is more important than Dad, and messing up Alan's hair. He didn't even notice, just shoving sugar-laden french toast in his mouth. Two fast steps to miss the egg spilled on the floor and the pathetic my wife's toy dog eating it for breakfast, then flip the last two slices off the cook-top and onto the plate. Fork, knife (thick slice of butter while the wife isn't looking!), a dash of powered sugar, some maple syrup, scoop of eggs, another of fruit. Drop the plate on the table just in time for Sally to hand me the morning's wake up fuel.
And then eating while craziness washes around me. It's always odd how such a noisy place with so many people going about their day can yet be so alone. But it is. When you're the history teacher in high school there are no high priced lunches, no risky deals or newsworthy moments in your life. You are the solid foundation that everyone else gets to bounce off. Just like I want it.
Sally may be too plump and far too easy going for my family, but no one does french toast better, nor coffee. It's simply wonderful to wake up to a morning with good food, a happy smile and a family that is living "the life".
Looking back I can see how insufferable I was this morning. Just listening to that I can't help asking, "What were you thinking? Such a perfect gooey little domestic scene practically screams for drama. One moment, that warm scene, the rich scent of dark roast, thick smells of french toast with butter and maple and sugar, happy voices enjoying life, oblivious to what's coming next.
Then Sally turns around. The *crock* as her mug hits the floor, kids jumping, the dog skittering to the side on the tile floor. And suddenly hush! A moment of complete silence as Sally's eyes widen, the flush up her neck as a massive reaction spikes her blood, then the shriek, "Duncan!!! What the hell are you going to do?!"
For a moment, just one, I haven't a clue what she's talking about. But then the way her and the kids are staring at me finally penetrates. I look down and see something I have never seen before. Something I knew I would never see. Bright red numbers shining through my shirt. Not just a single digit, horrible as that would be. No, the number shining through my shirt had a three and enough zeros to be millions. *How the hell am I going to kill 3 million people today?* It's just unreal. Not possible. Must be a mistake. Someone has got to be pulling a prank or something.
But my thoughts went to what we were told 30 years ago when the counters were mandated flash through my head. "A human's life if looked at in four dimension would resemble a worm with endless tight loops for each day's rotation, stretching out over many circumferences as the Earth turns around the sun. And the Physicist, Dr. Melvin Harlow, who had found a way to read along the line forward and back, just enough to allow prediction. Turns out that taking a human life actually causes a disruption on the life-flow, enough of one to create a blip, measurable by the Harlow detector. The counter mandated when it was discovered it could be used to help people avoid dangerous situations. Seeing a four or eight could lead someone to drive more safely, to avoid driving under the influence. A major breakthrough it was claimed!"
*I've never seen a number on my chest. I can't breathe, can't think, don't know what to do. Surely there's a number to call? Someone who can explain why I'm suddenly seeing 3 million deaths by my choices? How can I kill that many? Not why, I have no reason to do that. But how? I'm... no one. I'm nothing special. Just a history teacher in a small town with no real enemies, no real ambitions. Just to live a good life with my wife and kids. What the hell is happening?"
When I felt Sally's hand on my arm I realized I hadn't said anything. "I don't know what's going on Sal. This is... wrong. Somethings wrong about this. I don't know what, but I'm going to, well..."
"What?" She asked. "What are you going to do? Who can you call? You know the police will take you into custody as soon as they find out."
The phone rings.
"Why would they take me into... oh, yeah, the law. Right. But I'm not..."
The phone keeps ringing. Someone really wants to talk.
"Hello?" I ask.
"I can tell by your voice Duncan that you've seen your Marlow numbers. I just wanted to call and tell you that its been fifteen years. Long, hard years. Everyday I've woken up and missed my beautiful Sally. Days you've lived with her, loved her. And kept her from me. For which you are now going to pay. I hope you burn for this Duncan, I truly do. Goodbye."
Even into the silence on the line all I could say was, "What? Who is this?" | Even in the world I lived in this wasn't normal. The number on my chest changed from 1 to 3......million. The numbers on our chests indicates how many people we'll kill within the next month.
It started with a phone call with my mother asking to go to lunch. Naturally I'd love to see my mother and we set up a time and place. After I'd hung up the phone, that's when the numbers changed. I should've taken the clue, but I went along with our planned events anyway. As I walked down the street I payed attention to my numbers and to not show anyone. It stayed at 3 million.
It'd already bothered me that the number was 1, but 3 million? 3 MILLION?? How could I change so I wasn't accountable for all these lives. With a sigh I sat down at the restaurant table to meet with my mother. She wasn't here yet, but I was early. I reached to grab my fork, but decided not to and put my hand down on the table. Even weirder is when I put my hand down, the number went back down to 1.
To confirm what I saw, I reached for the fork again and the number on my chest rose to 3 million. Immediately I put my hand down and The number fell back to 1. What was going on? Why the fork? Then my Mother walked in and we exchanged our hello's. Soon we ordered our food, a salad for mother and a ravioli for me. She started eating, but I sat still. I couldn't reach for the fork now, a meal wasn't worth 3 million lives.
"Pick up your fork and eat your food." Mother told me. I shook my head in reply, "I can't." She gave me a strange look and tilted her head, "Why not?" I began to tremble, why couldn't I? What was going to happen if I took the fork? I guess curiosity took the better of me.
I looked directly into my Mother's eyes and with a shaky voice I managed to tell her, "I don't know." And before I could feel the regret, I took the fork. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The phone rang and Serge looked up from the drawing board where he was sketching formulae and equations.
He blinked and it burned to do so, he wondered how long it had been since he had last blinked, or eaten for that matter.
The buzz from the whiskey at the bar earlier that evening had long worn off. He had gone out with Hank and a couple of the other scientists after they knocked off for the night. That was six hours ago. Serge had been against it but Hank had insisted, he had always been the laid back one, allocating more time to flirting with the younger scientists than Serge preferred. Hank was always one sexual harassment complaint away from getting kicked off the team. Serge never flirted with anyone but the equations and formulae, they were his bedmates and he had gotten pretty good at convincing himself it was enough.
They were a week past deadline and everyone from Congress to the Pentagon was knocking. But today they were closer than they had ever been before. They had everything they needed logistically, the payload delivery via submarines in the gulfs of Oman and Aden, the fuel ratio to carry the rockets far enough West for the most adequate disbursement, and the correct altitude for that disbursement so that the jet stream would carry the chemicals over much of the Arabian Peninsula and into Iran. All they needed was the right mixture, the right formula of death and pestilence to do the dirty work, and that came down to Serge.
He was surprised at himself with how quickly he caved to Hank’s requests that he go to the bar. Maybe he knew on some level that he needed the break.
His brain welcomed the whiskey openly and it made him food good. It had cleared his mind of a lot of clutter but now he just felt parched.
The phone rang again and Serge leaned to the side, his spine making three notable pops as he moved to grab the mobile off the stand next to his drawing board. He absently scratched at his chest as he pressed “secure connect” on his government issued phone. Protocol required all calls between the team and any other government officials be done only through secure lines at all times. There was a series of beeps before he heard Hank connect.
“Sarge…” he heard Hank shout in his Texan drawl. Hank’s nickname for Serge was “Sarge,” as in sergeant, he was one of those guys who had a nickname for anyone and they were not always pleasant. For instance, the President was “hair piece,” and the Secretary of Defense was “General Green Sheets” because, Hank assumed, he was so military even his bed sheets were army green.
“You did it Sarge, you cracked the formula!” Hank continued.
“What?” Serge replied in his slight Swedish accent, “The formula? What about it, I’ve been working on it since I got home, how did you know?”
“One, since you are always working on it and since you completely failed to leave the bar with Mel, despite the fact that she has been laying it on thick trying to get you to notice her for weeks, and frankly bud, I’m kind of jealous, how you have not noticed that ass...”
“Hank…” interjected Serge.
“You’re right, I’m getting off track. Your chest Sarge, look at your chest!”
Serge suddenly realized he had been absently scratching it for several minutes now. When did it start itching so much? It felt reminiscent of when a scab was getting ready to fall off, but over a much larger area.
Serge clicked the phone over to speaker and placed it on the drawing board. He quickly pulled off the white undershirt he had been wearing for almost 24 hours now and stepped in front of the mirror. Where there had always been a “1” before, a number that gnawed at him his whole life, now there was a new number, a much larger number, “3,000,000.”
“Hank, can you come over and get this, right now? It’s on my drawing board,” Serge said, his voice starting to waver.
“Sarge, you…ok?” Hank asked. “Aren’t you excited? This is great! We’re gonna be rich.”
“Ecstatic,” Serge said dryly and disconnected the call.
He walked back to the drawing board and looked over his creation, how had he not realized it the second he had done it. He always thought there would be some kind of “eureka” moment but now there was nothing, he felt empty.
How long ago did the number change, and how did Hank notice? His number must have changed too, and everyone on the team too. What about others, the president, everyone who knew about their project?
Looking over his sketches he saw that it all made sense. The rest of the team would figure it out all right.
Serge stood slowly and went to the bathroom to relieve himself and then to his bedroom where he extracted a small metal box from under his bed. He didn’t want it when General Green Sheets had insisted they each have it but now he was glad it was there.
All this time, after years of work, he had been so obsessed with the work that he loved he never took a moment to think of the consequences. Is this how it was with Fermi and Oppenheimer and the rest of the Manhattan Project guys? Did they feel the same way? Probably not, they probably all got drunk at a party and banged some mistresses. They would have liked Hank, that chip off the ol’ block. Serge laughed once as he pulled the small zipper-locked plastic baggie from the box. “I wonder if it’s too late for him to give Hank a nickname, he could have called him “Chip,” and it would have been his secret.
There would be no secrets now, everything was on the table, the drawing board would remain empty from now on. He sat back down on the stool in front of his creation, his little cog in their infernal machine, his mighty steed with which would ride across the desert.
Serge slipped the little pill out of the bag and under his tongue. He thought it would have tasted more like medicine but instead it tasted chalky. He thought of Mel, and her smile and as his throat closed he remained calm with the ironic thought that cyanide was one ingredient he had left out because it seemed antiquated to him.
Serge slumped forward onto his papers and then fell to the floor.
Half an hour later Hank found him, shirtless and belly up, the number 2,999,999 on his chest. | I usually live a peaceful life, going about my day helping people. It's very rare that I'll wake up one morning to find a number on my body. I wish I could say the same from my previous lives though. I can remember bits and pieces of them. It's feels like remembering a stale memory from your childhood, however I'm not always a child in these memories. I've seen things in these memories of things I have done. Terrible deeds I made others carry out for me. I honestly thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was helping my country and my people. I was really hoping I was going to be able to lead a normal life. A life that didn't involve so much death...like my previous ones. But with ISIS attacks in some of the major countries in the world, including my own here in the United States, I can feel the urge. I've felt it for the past 6 months now. But it's coming soon...Today is July 1st, and a number appeared on my body. I can tell things are going to get better now. I am starting to see things clearer. I can see that if I do this, not only me but billions of other will be able to live peacefully. 3 million, is what my body says. I have 30 days to accomplish this. It will be my most glorious genocide yet. 3 million in a single month! Should I do mass shootings like I did back in Rwanda. Or should I use gas like I did in Germany. They all sound like fantastic ideas, it is so hard to choose! No! Don't think about it too much! It will come to you in time. The only thing I know for sure, is that it's all the Muslims fault. Too many of them have fallen off the path of righteousness. Too many that all must be dealt with......
(Reminder this is a fictional story, and I do not have hatred towards Muslims, Jews, etc. I wrote this for the enjoyment for you guys, constructive criticism is appreciated as I am no writer.) Note: I wrote this at work so I am unable to check for Grammer mistakes. If you find holes or mistakes let me know and I will fix them asap. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The man got off the plane, idly scratching an itch on his chest. He sneezed once, twice, never noticing the number on his chest change from One to something much more epidemic. He got into a taxi, sniffling and sneezing, humming his favorite Doors song. | I usually live a peaceful life, going about my day helping people. It's very rare that I'll wake up one morning to find a number on my body. I wish I could say the same from my previous lives though. I can remember bits and pieces of them. It's feels like remembering a stale memory from your childhood, however I'm not always a child in these memories. I've seen things in these memories of things I have done. Terrible deeds I made others carry out for me. I honestly thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was helping my country and my people. I was really hoping I was going to be able to lead a normal life. A life that didn't involve so much death...like my previous ones. But with ISIS attacks in some of the major countries in the world, including my own here in the United States, I can feel the urge. I've felt it for the past 6 months now. But it's coming soon...Today is July 1st, and a number appeared on my body. I can tell things are going to get better now. I am starting to see things clearer. I can see that if I do this, not only me but billions of other will be able to live peacefully. 3 million, is what my body says. I have 30 days to accomplish this. It will be my most glorious genocide yet. 3 million in a single month! Should I do mass shootings like I did back in Rwanda. Or should I use gas like I did in Germany. They all sound like fantastic ideas, it is so hard to choose! No! Don't think about it too much! It will come to you in time. The only thing I know for sure, is that it's all the Muslims fault. Too many of them have fallen off the path of righteousness. Too many that all must be dealt with......
(Reminder this is a fictional story, and I do not have hatred towards Muslims, Jews, etc. I wrote this for the enjoyment for you guys, constructive criticism is appreciated as I am no writer.) Note: I wrote this at work so I am unable to check for Grammer mistakes. If you find holes or mistakes let me know and I will fix them asap. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Yes, I had been a Navy Seal, many decades ago. It was hardly relevant to my current life, or so I had thought: I'd left after ten years and some still-secret missions and shifted careers to the technology business world. The Navy was the first to decrypt the numbers, back when nobody could read them. They recruited the successful ones, kept them isolated to ensure no friendly killings, and fired them once the numbers changed.
Of course, eventually everybody figured out how the numbers worked. The numeral system it employed was now taught in schools even before the Arabic one, and there was talk of adopting it as a standard to take advantage of the many beneficial features it had over the current systems. It was far easier to learn, and yet so much more expressive and faster: scientists believe it pointed to an alien intelligence source. For example, rounding and ranges were built in, so a literal translation of "1" might mean anything from "0-2.5", or "10" could mean from "5-15", depending on grammar cues nearby. Numerologists hadn't yet deciphered all of them, but it was close enough to be useful.
Anyway, my number change happened at what felt like the worst possible time. I was trying to implement an anti-crime program that would use machine learning to distinguish the "1"s that meant nothing from those that indicated murderers. I would need access to police databases of criminal scans to do this, and it inevitably became political. You know that insane plot hole in Minority Report where they cancel a program that got the murder rate to 0(!) because it messed up once (on an edge case, where an insider was deliberately trying to trick it)? I swear to you, in real life it would be ten times worse. They're actually under representing the level of insanity when it comes to public crime policy.
Complaining doesn't do much, so I hired a PR firm to sell the project for me. I figured if I had the public on my side politicians would have a harder time saying no. And it was working: the more media time I bought, the more projections and studies by "independent researchers" that supported the proposal, the higher support it received in the polls.
As a final push, I prepared for a live television ad, where I'd reintroduce the program, review the evidence, and conclude with a call to action for viewers to contact their representatives. Halfway through the broadcast, it happened. 50 million people saw my number go from "1" to "3 million" live. Within an hour I would be the most wanted man in history, and not in a good way.
My Seal instincts kicked in. Ten seconds after the change, I was no longer in the studio; ten minutes, I had retrieved all my weapons from my arsenal; by the time the FBI put out a billion dollar reward for my head four hours later, I was several states over, in a bunker, with an 18-wheeler filled with food and arms.
(Continued) | The implant itched. It had been itching for a week, but never changed. I looked down, in annoyance. The fact that the number "1" had been there for a while annoyed me - how could I conceivably take another life? My mind reeled when I saw the number that now displayed there - 3 million? How in the hell?
"Breathe", I told myself. "Breathe." Surely there's an explanation - the benefactors that control this planet couldn't possibly foresee me killing 3 million people, could they? How do they even know? They couldn't possibly know, could they?
I wondered about what in my life could even cause such devastation - I drive around in a small car, I've been healthy all my life, I'm a lowly technician at work. How could I possibly take millions of lives?
The next few days passed in a blur, I was constantly checking to make sure my shirt was closed, and my mind was constantly wondering back to the implant, and the insane number that was shown.
I began to think of my job - that had to be it. I work at a power plant as a lowly technician, but, surely I couldn't be responsible for anything that could leave millions dead, could I? I began wondering if it's my failing to do something that causes the deaths, if I were destined to stop the deaths.
The next few days, I kept an eagle eye on everyone, everything. I was having trouble sleeping, staying up all night wondering who it is, what it is I'm supposed to stop. All the time, the number stayed in the millions. The benefactors must want me to save everyone.
My superiors have started to act shady, though - they hush when I come near, they're talking about something big, I just know it. I'm beginning to believe my boss and his boss intend to sabotage the plant - perhaps they don't like the benefactors, and want to destroy what bit they control to annoy them?
The weeks passed, and my fears seemed to be coming true. I keep hearing them talk about things - things that they won't share with us. I haven't slept in 4 days - I keep trying to come up with plans to stop them. A small explosive - those archaic devices that had been banned by our benefactors - that's the answer. There's no way I could come up with one without being targeted by security squads, but, I'm smart enough to make my own. I know enough chemistry to make an explosive - and have access to plenty of metal tubing. I could make a few of these crude devices, and use them to take out the ones making all these plans to destroy everything. I spent the next few days crafting the devices, these bombs.
When I showed up to work, my coworkers were eyeing me suspiciously - my absence had been noted? I carried a few pipes filled with crude explosive, ready to set them off to disrupt their plans, kill my superiors. I worked my way around, setting the bombs, lighting the fuses carefully. As I worked my way out, I heard an explosion greater than what I had expected - had I gotten the formula wrong? Then I heard more explosions. Something was going horribly wrong. The ingredients... they had been far too convenient... provided by the suppliers... | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Finally made it to LAX. I couldn't wait to get off the plane, stretch my legs, and get to my hotel room before the convention.
All I needed to do was get my one gigantic suitcase from baggage claim and make my way to the taxi platform.
And there it is... a little scuffed up, but I know it's mine. As I lift it off the conveyor belt, it seems a little heavier than normal. But I pay it no mind.
As I walk down to the cabs, suitcase in tow, I feel an itchy sensation on my chest. I duck into the restroom to look in the mirror.
Then I notice the number 3114637 imprinted just below my collarbone. That's funny, it was just a number 1 there previously.
I tried to remember the significance of the number being there as I went back to the concourse. Suddenly alarms started going off everywhere. An announcement came over the PA system: "There has been a security breach. This airport is on lockdown. Please stay calm and remain in the terminal until the situation is resolved."
That's not good. I *really* need to get to my hotel and get some rest, dammit.
I head towards a TV playing a news channel. "Airport security has detained a suspect involved in the disappearance of a nuclear warhead from China, who managed to sneak onto the grounds as an airport employee. It is not clear how long he has been there..."
Suddenly I hear a beeping noise from my suitcase. As I fumbled for the latches, my heart sank. Oh shit, I remember what that number was f-- | The implant itched. It had been itching for a week, but never changed. I looked down, in annoyance. The fact that the number "1" had been there for a while annoyed me - how could I conceivably take another life? My mind reeled when I saw the number that now displayed there - 3 million? How in the hell?
"Breathe", I told myself. "Breathe." Surely there's an explanation - the benefactors that control this planet couldn't possibly foresee me killing 3 million people, could they? How do they even know? They couldn't possibly know, could they?
I wondered about what in my life could even cause such devastation - I drive around in a small car, I've been healthy all my life, I'm a lowly technician at work. How could I possibly take millions of lives?
The next few days passed in a blur, I was constantly checking to make sure my shirt was closed, and my mind was constantly wondering back to the implant, and the insane number that was shown.
I began to think of my job - that had to be it. I work at a power plant as a lowly technician, but, surely I couldn't be responsible for anything that could leave millions dead, could I? I began wondering if it's my failing to do something that causes the deaths, if I were destined to stop the deaths.
The next few days, I kept an eagle eye on everyone, everything. I was having trouble sleeping, staying up all night wondering who it is, what it is I'm supposed to stop. All the time, the number stayed in the millions. The benefactors must want me to save everyone.
My superiors have started to act shady, though - they hush when I come near, they're talking about something big, I just know it. I'm beginning to believe my boss and his boss intend to sabotage the plant - perhaps they don't like the benefactors, and want to destroy what bit they control to annoy them?
The weeks passed, and my fears seemed to be coming true. I keep hearing them talk about things - things that they won't share with us. I haven't slept in 4 days - I keep trying to come up with plans to stop them. A small explosive - those archaic devices that had been banned by our benefactors - that's the answer. There's no way I could come up with one without being targeted by security squads, but, I'm smart enough to make my own. I know enough chemistry to make an explosive - and have access to plenty of metal tubing. I could make a few of these crude devices, and use them to take out the ones making all these plans to destroy everything. I spent the next few days crafting the devices, these bombs.
When I showed up to work, my coworkers were eyeing me suspiciously - my absence had been noted? I carried a few pipes filled with crude explosive, ready to set them off to disrupt their plans, kill my superiors. I worked my way around, setting the bombs, lighting the fuses carefully. As I worked my way out, I heard an explosion greater than what I had expected - had I gotten the formula wrong? Then I heard more explosions. Something was going horribly wrong. The ingredients... they had been far too convenient... provided by the suppliers... | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | I could barely write, my past 12 ebooks sold a depressing total of 7 copies.
3 nights ago the number 1 simply appeared on my chest. I honestly did not care, I knew that it was not a big deal, I decided to take my own life anyway and I knew that finally I could finish what I planned for so long. I wrote my last shitty ebook in less than 6 hours. I prepared myself, I diligently ingested 34 sleeping pills and started to fade away. 30 seconds later I clicked enter and the ebook was published, I went to the bathroom, peed, and looked in the mirror. Weird...3.197.001... jeez the ebook will for sure sell a lot more than expected. As I closed my eyes the number went down to 3.197.000. What a glorious death, what a greatl title. Suicide for Dummies just 99 cents
... | The implant itched. It had been itching for a week, but never changed. I looked down, in annoyance. The fact that the number "1" had been there for a while annoyed me - how could I conceivably take another life? My mind reeled when I saw the number that now displayed there - 3 million? How in the hell?
"Breathe", I told myself. "Breathe." Surely there's an explanation - the benefactors that control this planet couldn't possibly foresee me killing 3 million people, could they? How do they even know? They couldn't possibly know, could they?
I wondered about what in my life could even cause such devastation - I drive around in a small car, I've been healthy all my life, I'm a lowly technician at work. How could I possibly take millions of lives?
The next few days passed in a blur, I was constantly checking to make sure my shirt was closed, and my mind was constantly wondering back to the implant, and the insane number that was shown.
I began to think of my job - that had to be it. I work at a power plant as a lowly technician, but, surely I couldn't be responsible for anything that could leave millions dead, could I? I began wondering if it's my failing to do something that causes the deaths, if I were destined to stop the deaths.
The next few days, I kept an eagle eye on everyone, everything. I was having trouble sleeping, staying up all night wondering who it is, what it is I'm supposed to stop. All the time, the number stayed in the millions. The benefactors must want me to save everyone.
My superiors have started to act shady, though - they hush when I come near, they're talking about something big, I just know it. I'm beginning to believe my boss and his boss intend to sabotage the plant - perhaps they don't like the benefactors, and want to destroy what bit they control to annoy them?
The weeks passed, and my fears seemed to be coming true. I keep hearing them talk about things - things that they won't share with us. I haven't slept in 4 days - I keep trying to come up with plans to stop them. A small explosive - those archaic devices that had been banned by our benefactors - that's the answer. There's no way I could come up with one without being targeted by security squads, but, I'm smart enough to make my own. I know enough chemistry to make an explosive - and have access to plenty of metal tubing. I could make a few of these crude devices, and use them to take out the ones making all these plans to destroy everything. I spent the next few days crafting the devices, these bombs.
When I showed up to work, my coworkers were eyeing me suspiciously - my absence had been noted? I carried a few pipes filled with crude explosive, ready to set them off to disrupt their plans, kill my superiors. I worked my way around, setting the bombs, lighting the fuses carefully. As I worked my way out, I heard an explosion greater than what I had expected - had I gotten the formula wrong? Then I heard more explosions. Something was going horribly wrong. The ingredients... they had been far too convenient... provided by the suppliers... | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Finally made it to LAX. I couldn't wait to get off the plane, stretch my legs, and get to my hotel room before the convention.
All I needed to do was get my one gigantic suitcase from baggage claim and make my way to the taxi platform.
And there it is... a little scuffed up, but I know it's mine. As I lift it off the conveyor belt, it seems a little heavier than normal. But I pay it no mind.
As I walk down to the cabs, suitcase in tow, I feel an itchy sensation on my chest. I duck into the restroom to look in the mirror.
Then I notice the number 3114637 imprinted just below my collarbone. That's funny, it was just a number 1 there previously.
I tried to remember the significance of the number being there as I went back to the concourse. Suddenly alarms started going off everywhere. An announcement came over the PA system: "There has been a security breach. This airport is on lockdown. Please stay calm and remain in the terminal until the situation is resolved."
That's not good. I *really* need to get to my hotel and get some rest, dammit.
I head towards a TV playing a news channel. "Airport security has detained a suspect involved in the disappearance of a nuclear warhead from China, who managed to sneak onto the grounds as an airport employee. It is not clear how long he has been there..."
Suddenly I hear a beeping noise from my suitcase. As I fumbled for the latches, my heart sank. Oh shit, I remember what that number was f-- | Yes, I had been a Navy Seal, many decades ago. It was hardly relevant to my current life, or so I had thought: I'd left after ten years and some still-secret missions and shifted careers to the technology business world. The Navy was the first to decrypt the numbers, back when nobody could read them. They recruited the successful ones, kept them isolated to ensure no friendly killings, and fired them once the numbers changed.
Of course, eventually everybody figured out how the numbers worked. The numeral system it employed was now taught in schools even before the Arabic one, and there was talk of adopting it as a standard to take advantage of the many beneficial features it had over the current systems. It was far easier to learn, and yet so much more expressive and faster: scientists believe it pointed to an alien intelligence source. For example, rounding and ranges were built in, so a literal translation of "1" might mean anything from "0-2.5", or "10" could mean from "5-15", depending on grammar cues nearby. Numerologists hadn't yet deciphered all of them, but it was close enough to be useful.
Anyway, my number change happened at what felt like the worst possible time. I was trying to implement an anti-crime program that would use machine learning to distinguish the "1"s that meant nothing from those that indicated murderers. I would need access to police databases of criminal scans to do this, and it inevitably became political. You know that insane plot hole in Minority Report where they cancel a program that got the murder rate to 0(!) because it messed up once (on an edge case, where an insider was deliberately trying to trick it)? I swear to you, in real life it would be ten times worse. They're actually under representing the level of insanity when it comes to public crime policy.
Complaining doesn't do much, so I hired a PR firm to sell the project for me. I figured if I had the public on my side politicians would have a harder time saying no. And it was working: the more media time I bought, the more projections and studies by "independent researchers" that supported the proposal, the higher support it received in the polls.
As a final push, I prepared for a live television ad, where I'd reintroduce the program, review the evidence, and conclude with a call to action for viewers to contact their representatives. Halfway through the broadcast, it happened. 50 million people saw my number go from "1" to "3 million" live. Within an hour I would be the most wanted man in history, and not in a good way.
My Seal instincts kicked in. Ten seconds after the change, I was no longer in the studio; ten minutes, I had retrieved all my weapons from my arsenal; by the time the FBI put out a billion dollar reward for my head four hours later, I was several states over, in a bunker, with an 18-wheeler filled with food and arms.
(Continued) | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | I could barely write, my past 12 ebooks sold a depressing total of 7 copies.
3 nights ago the number 1 simply appeared on my chest. I honestly did not care, I knew that it was not a big deal, I decided to take my own life anyway and I knew that finally I could finish what I planned for so long. I wrote my last shitty ebook in less than 6 hours. I prepared myself, I diligently ingested 34 sleeping pills and started to fade away. 30 seconds later I clicked enter and the ebook was published, I went to the bathroom, peed, and looked in the mirror. Weird...3.197.001... jeez the ebook will for sure sell a lot more than expected. As I closed my eyes the number went down to 3.197.000. What a glorious death, what a greatl title. Suicide for Dummies just 99 cents
... | Yes, I had been a Navy Seal, many decades ago. It was hardly relevant to my current life, or so I had thought: I'd left after ten years and some still-secret missions and shifted careers to the technology business world. The Navy was the first to decrypt the numbers, back when nobody could read them. They recruited the successful ones, kept them isolated to ensure no friendly killings, and fired them once the numbers changed.
Of course, eventually everybody figured out how the numbers worked. The numeral system it employed was now taught in schools even before the Arabic one, and there was talk of adopting it as a standard to take advantage of the many beneficial features it had over the current systems. It was far easier to learn, and yet so much more expressive and faster: scientists believe it pointed to an alien intelligence source. For example, rounding and ranges were built in, so a literal translation of "1" might mean anything from "0-2.5", or "10" could mean from "5-15", depending on grammar cues nearby. Numerologists hadn't yet deciphered all of them, but it was close enough to be useful.
Anyway, my number change happened at what felt like the worst possible time. I was trying to implement an anti-crime program that would use machine learning to distinguish the "1"s that meant nothing from those that indicated murderers. I would need access to police databases of criminal scans to do this, and it inevitably became political. You know that insane plot hole in Minority Report where they cancel a program that got the murder rate to 0(!) because it messed up once (on an edge case, where an insider was deliberately trying to trick it)? I swear to you, in real life it would be ten times worse. They're actually under representing the level of insanity when it comes to public crime policy.
Complaining doesn't do much, so I hired a PR firm to sell the project for me. I figured if I had the public on my side politicians would have a harder time saying no. And it was working: the more media time I bought, the more projections and studies by "independent researchers" that supported the proposal, the higher support it received in the polls.
As a final push, I prepared for a live television ad, where I'd reintroduce the program, review the evidence, and conclude with a call to action for viewers to contact their representatives. Halfway through the broadcast, it happened. 50 million people saw my number go from "1" to "3 million" live. Within an hour I would be the most wanted man in history, and not in a good way.
My Seal instincts kicked in. Ten seconds after the change, I was no longer in the studio; ten minutes, I had retrieved all my weapons from my arsenal; by the time the FBI put out a billion dollar reward for my head four hours later, I was several states over, in a bunker, with an 18-wheeler filled with food and arms.
(Continued) | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Finally made it to LAX. I couldn't wait to get off the plane, stretch my legs, and get to my hotel room before the convention.
All I needed to do was get my one gigantic suitcase from baggage claim and make my way to the taxi platform.
And there it is... a little scuffed up, but I know it's mine. As I lift it off the conveyor belt, it seems a little heavier than normal. But I pay it no mind.
As I walk down to the cabs, suitcase in tow, I feel an itchy sensation on my chest. I duck into the restroom to look in the mirror.
Then I notice the number 3114637 imprinted just below my collarbone. That's funny, it was just a number 1 there previously.
I tried to remember the significance of the number being there as I went back to the concourse. Suddenly alarms started going off everywhere. An announcement came over the PA system: "There has been a security breach. This airport is on lockdown. Please stay calm and remain in the terminal until the situation is resolved."
That's not good. I *really* need to get to my hotel and get some rest, dammit.
I head towards a TV playing a news channel. "Airport security has detained a suspect involved in the disappearance of a nuclear warhead from China, who managed to sneak onto the grounds as an airport employee. It is not clear how long he has been there..."
Suddenly I hear a beeping noise from my suitcase. As I fumbled for the latches, my heart sank. Oh shit, I remember what that number was f-- | As I stepped out of the shower, I checked myself as I always did. 1. Eventually, like everyone, I would be responsible for my own death and my own death only.
I pulled on my work clothes, left my cabin and made my way down to the engine room. It's a long slog down from the accommodation and I was sweating profusely by the time I got there.
"Morning Chief!" I greeted the boss.
He replied in his usual, flat tone. "Job in for you. Main prop is fluctuating slightly and the old man wants it sorted before we make port later on today".
Great, I thought. Another day in the depths of hell, roasting away by the main engine and prop shaft. Ah well, nothing for it. I didn't have much time before we made our final turn and these modern liquid gas tankers don't exactly respond well. So I grabbed my tool bag and made my way aft.
I quickly checked the engine control panel on the way past. Looked like a simple feedback problem, should be an easy fix. I picked up a spare potentiometer and headed for the interface box.
"Strange" I thought. "Smells slightly scorched, like a short circuit. Ozone. Best get this done quickly.
That was the mistake. I forgot to isolate the controllers before opening the box. The short I thought I smelled must have moved when I opened the door and there was a blinding flash, some flame and a lot of smoke. I also felt like someone had punched me in the ribs.
Horrified, I ripped off my coveralls and lifted my shirt. There, burning like flame, was the figure 3, 973,145.
Comprehension slowly dawned on me as I heard the main propeller ramp up to full speed. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Oh jeez, oh jeez, how did I get myself into this mess, I thought as old man Mr. Philips was laughing his crazy head off.
Looking back, I regret my decision being an art major. If I chosen to spend my college life studying business or some direct major, then I wouldn't have gotten the job to be Mr. Philips assistant. When I first met him at the entrance of his grand mansion, he looked like that wealthy retired old guy, robe, groomed mustache and a head full of lush gray hair. The number 0 was on our chest at the time. He greeted loudly, "Hello and thank you for answering my ad on Craigslist!" We set up the terms that I will be his assistant and the pay was wonderful. Never would I thought that Mr. Philips would go from 0 to 6 million on the crazy kill level within a day.
First, it started with him asking me to help rob a pet store for cat food. I entered the garage and he asked if I could drive him to the Pets. Of course I obliged and the next thing I realized I was driving some fancy Cadillac full of wet can food, a black garbage bag over my head as a mask and Mr. Philips dressed the same declaring that this is how he should of lived long ago. Thank goodness I paid the cashier after Mr. Philips went running out with a cart of cat chow.
Back to now, I see Mr. Philips holding his laser satellite controller in one hand and his cat Sir Bubbles in the other. He was laughing crazy, saying how he would burn giant penises all over the areas of earth. The more he talked the higher the number on his chest appeared.
I had the number 1 on my chest and I knew it was for Mr. Philips. But then Mr. Philips stopped laughing and handed me the controller. I was more confused than ever. "Here you go first. I need you to teach me how to draw a penis and I'll follow your example," said Mr. Philips. My mind raced through options but I could not let my artistic talents go to waste. The number on my chest went to 3 million as I activated the satellite.
Edit: mr. Philips is this crazy old wealthy dude who keeps reoccurring in my dreams. There was a need to talk about him | As I stepped out of the shower, I checked myself as I always did. 1. Eventually, like everyone, I would be responsible for my own death and my own death only.
I pulled on my work clothes, left my cabin and made my way down to the engine room. It's a long slog down from the accommodation and I was sweating profusely by the time I got there.
"Morning Chief!" I greeted the boss.
He replied in his usual, flat tone. "Job in for you. Main prop is fluctuating slightly and the old man wants it sorted before we make port later on today".
Great, I thought. Another day in the depths of hell, roasting away by the main engine and prop shaft. Ah well, nothing for it. I didn't have much time before we made our final turn and these modern liquid gas tankers don't exactly respond well. So I grabbed my tool bag and made my way aft.
I quickly checked the engine control panel on the way past. Looked like a simple feedback problem, should be an easy fix. I picked up a spare potentiometer and headed for the interface box.
"Strange" I thought. "Smells slightly scorched, like a short circuit. Ozone. Best get this done quickly.
That was the mistake. I forgot to isolate the controllers before opening the box. The short I thought I smelled must have moved when I opened the door and there was a blinding flash, some flame and a lot of smoke. I also felt like someone had punched me in the ribs.
Horrified, I ripped off my coveralls and lifted my shirt. There, burning like flame, was the figure 3, 973,145.
Comprehension slowly dawned on me as I heard the main propeller ramp up to full speed. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | He stood in front of the mirror, thinking to himself. “I have to pass, I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t pass, if I don’t get in.”
Slowly he tore open the envelope, not even sure he wanted to know. He closed his eyes, slid the letter out and unfolded it.
*“We’re sorry, you did not meet the minimum score to allow entrance to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts class of 1908. You do have the opportunity to apply agai…………………”*
As he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, his number changed.
| As I stepped out of the shower, I checked myself as I always did. 1. Eventually, like everyone, I would be responsible for my own death and my own death only.
I pulled on my work clothes, left my cabin and made my way down to the engine room. It's a long slog down from the accommodation and I was sweating profusely by the time I got there.
"Morning Chief!" I greeted the boss.
He replied in his usual, flat tone. "Job in for you. Main prop is fluctuating slightly and the old man wants it sorted before we make port later on today".
Great, I thought. Another day in the depths of hell, roasting away by the main engine and prop shaft. Ah well, nothing for it. I didn't have much time before we made our final turn and these modern liquid gas tankers don't exactly respond well. So I grabbed my tool bag and made my way aft.
I quickly checked the engine control panel on the way past. Looked like a simple feedback problem, should be an easy fix. I picked up a spare potentiometer and headed for the interface box.
"Strange" I thought. "Smells slightly scorched, like a short circuit. Ozone. Best get this done quickly.
That was the mistake. I forgot to isolate the controllers before opening the box. The short I thought I smelled must have moved when I opened the door and there was a blinding flash, some flame and a lot of smoke. I also felt like someone had punched me in the ribs.
Horrified, I ripped off my coveralls and lifted my shirt. There, burning like flame, was the figure 3, 973,145.
Comprehension slowly dawned on me as I heard the main propeller ramp up to full speed. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | I could barely write, my past 12 ebooks sold a depressing total of 7 copies.
3 nights ago the number 1 simply appeared on my chest. I honestly did not care, I knew that it was not a big deal, I decided to take my own life anyway and I knew that finally I could finish what I planned for so long. I wrote my last shitty ebook in less than 6 hours. I prepared myself, I diligently ingested 34 sleeping pills and started to fade away. 30 seconds later I clicked enter and the ebook was published, I went to the bathroom, peed, and looked in the mirror. Weird...3.197.001... jeez the ebook will for sure sell a lot more than expected. As I closed my eyes the number went down to 3.197.000. What a glorious death, what a greatl title. Suicide for Dummies just 99 cents
... | As I stepped out of the shower, I checked myself as I always did. 1. Eventually, like everyone, I would be responsible for my own death and my own death only.
I pulled on my work clothes, left my cabin and made my way down to the engine room. It's a long slog down from the accommodation and I was sweating profusely by the time I got there.
"Morning Chief!" I greeted the boss.
He replied in his usual, flat tone. "Job in for you. Main prop is fluctuating slightly and the old man wants it sorted before we make port later on today".
Great, I thought. Another day in the depths of hell, roasting away by the main engine and prop shaft. Ah well, nothing for it. I didn't have much time before we made our final turn and these modern liquid gas tankers don't exactly respond well. So I grabbed my tool bag and made my way aft.
I quickly checked the engine control panel on the way past. Looked like a simple feedback problem, should be an easy fix. I picked up a spare potentiometer and headed for the interface box.
"Strange" I thought. "Smells slightly scorched, like a short circuit. Ozone. Best get this done quickly.
That was the mistake. I forgot to isolate the controllers before opening the box. The short I thought I smelled must have moved when I opened the door and there was a blinding flash, some flame and a lot of smoke. I also felt like someone had punched me in the ribs.
Horrified, I ripped off my coveralls and lifted my shirt. There, burning like flame, was the figure 3, 973,145.
Comprehension slowly dawned on me as I heard the main propeller ramp up to full speed. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The President must die.
His policies are too divisive, too extreme. Sure, he was just voted into office in a landslide a few months ago, but I can see what the general populace refuses to see. And I alone have the power to stop him, stop him with one click of my mouse.
I spent months trying to get close to him and his campaign, months of ground work and socializing and butt kissing. But finally the call came- I had been hired to cater his inaugural dinner.
After that, the plan was a breeze. I knew exactly which plate was his, since he was the only lactose intolerant vegetarian with a nut allergy at the party. I injected his food with the latest in nanobot technology, finished up the rest of the catering gig, and whistled as I walked home.
Now all I had to do was move my cursor over the "Execute" button, click the mouse, and let the killer nanobots finish my dirty work. I smiled, pushed my finger downward, and heard the satisfying CLICK.
...After that, silence. I don't know what I was expecting. The nanobots would take a few minutes to do their dirty work, and even then there isn't much noise associated with a single man dying across town, even if he is the leader of the free world.
Now that my months of planning had come to fruition, what should I do now? Maybe I'd take a shower, put on my pajamas, and enjoy the news of President Thompson's demise on the news before going to sleep.
Before hopping in the shower, I looked at the mirror and jumped back in shock. The number on my chest, the number that had been a bold "1" for the past month, now spread from pectoral to pectoral and read "3,094,296."
What had I done?
-----
Little did I know that across town, the President was dealing with the most tense situation that any President had faced in a generation. He had been alerted that one of our enemies had launched a nuke. President Thompson, displaying his typical calm demeanor, insisted that they make every single confirmation possible before retaliating.
However, he was also pragmatic, and decided to begin the nuclear retaliation protocol. He could reverse course at any time, but getting the codes and The Button set up took a little time. Finally, it was all set up, with only a clear plastic box and a red button separating him from unleashing a nuclear weapon on the enemy's largest city.
"What's the chance that this attack is real, Reynolds?" he asked his right hand man.
"99% sir, but we're getting the final data now."
The President sighed and lifted the thin plastic cover that protected The Button. Once the attack was 100% confirmed, he would have to act quickly, on the off chance the incoming missile took out any key retaliatory equipment.
He heard chatter on Reynolds phone, then saw his confidant's body relax. "It was a false alarm, sir. A computer glitch. There is no imminent threat to the country."
President Thompson exhaled in relief, and then dropped dead. His limp body collapsed onto the table and pressed The Button. | As I stepped out of the shower, I checked myself as I always did. 1. Eventually, like everyone, I would be responsible for my own death and my own death only.
I pulled on my work clothes, left my cabin and made my way down to the engine room. It's a long slog down from the accommodation and I was sweating profusely by the time I got there.
"Morning Chief!" I greeted the boss.
He replied in his usual, flat tone. "Job in for you. Main prop is fluctuating slightly and the old man wants it sorted before we make port later on today".
Great, I thought. Another day in the depths of hell, roasting away by the main engine and prop shaft. Ah well, nothing for it. I didn't have much time before we made our final turn and these modern liquid gas tankers don't exactly respond well. So I grabbed my tool bag and made my way aft.
I quickly checked the engine control panel on the way past. Looked like a simple feedback problem, should be an easy fix. I picked up a spare potentiometer and headed for the interface box.
"Strange" I thought. "Smells slightly scorched, like a short circuit. Ozone. Best get this done quickly.
That was the mistake. I forgot to isolate the controllers before opening the box. The short I thought I smelled must have moved when I opened the door and there was a blinding flash, some flame and a lot of smoke. I also felt like someone had punched me in the ribs.
Horrified, I ripped off my coveralls and lifted my shirt. There, burning like flame, was the figure 3, 973,145.
Comprehension slowly dawned on me as I heard the main propeller ramp up to full speed. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | It was a little after three in the morning on a Tuesday. The kind of three in the morning that gnaws at your insides a little, makes you squirm in your skin. *Restless*. It's happened before and will no doubt happen many times again, the mind is wide awake roaring like an engine. All the while the clock, perched on the desk with its ugly neon green LED readout, mockingly plays its silent hour long symphony of three in the morning.
Kevin hated three in the morning. To him it was a punishment, a consequence, a sentence that he concluded he was simply damned to serve. While the world slumbered peacefully on, Kevin sat wide awake in silent contemplation. Sleep never came easy to him, he was about as good at sleeping as he was at calculus- not even close to making the grade. Resigned though, he learned to accept his shortcoming and make peace with his circadian catastrophe. Still, he held animosity toward that one hour of the early morning.
"*Here we are again, ol' friend*" He thought sarcastically as he passively glanced at the time. "*No one in their right mind is awake right now, it's just me and you like always. No matter where I go or what I do, it always comes back to just me and you*"
Over the years Kevin began to resent this hour, he felt as if this was the only constant thing in his world. The isolation, the silence, the emptiness of just him and the face of the clock. He felt stuck in a time-loop, the days dragged on and the routine never changed. Everyday was the same lobotomized script and choreographed puppet show and Kevin floated through it without the slightest skip of the record; yet somehow without fail, he ended up back here at this disgraceful early hour of the morning. Even for how much it was detested, it was the only time he felt shaken awake out of his dismal autopilot existence at three in the morning. For that brief hour he was more aware, he felt the blood move through his body, he could hardly sit still yet he was glued to his seat motionless.
Kevin set his tablet on his bedside table and rubbed his eyes. "Might as well start the day." He chanted his mantra. He said this so many times throughout his life he debated tattooing it flat across his chest, it was almost his daily greeting to the prospect of another sunrise and sunset. He likely would have it tattooed already if not for the death count that already could occupy the skin over his and all mankind's breastbone.
The death count: a morbid indicator of just how many people will meet their demise within that month due to the actions you take in life. It was a strange concept to think about objectively but most had shrugged it off as just another caveat of the human experience. Scientists who studied the phenomenon when it first appeared were baffled at how the future could be predicted by numbers materializing on an individuals skin. Though extensive studies examined the phenomenon, no reasonable or logical explanation could be found. Years passed by and zealots cashed in on the death count forming cults and followings, many people looked to ancient texts and scriptures for guidance but none showed any correlation.
Philosophical and ethical debates soon ensued throughout the nations as to what to do with information like this. Mass suicides were common when people saw numbers on their chests. Men and women both took the lives of their entire families when numbers of four or five appeared. The world was in a state of havoc for a time but eventually the masses found a way to cope and people moved on.
The most perplexing angle to the death count was that the numbers did not lie. Murderers knew how many victims they would have that month, they used the count to their advantage. Stories circulated the media telling of those who tried to turn themselves in when they realized their fate, only to run a red light at a crosswalk unintentionally mowing down their victims. A man's attempted suicide by gun inadvertently hit a gas line in his apartment complex subsequently killing twenty.
Some months a terrifying "1" would appear on individuals chests, yet the deaths would be accidental: improperly stacked top shelf merchandise at the hardware store or simply forgetting to put the emergency break after parking. If one was lucky enough, they may not even be aware or anywhere near those destined to perish by their action or inaction.
Kevin prided himself on going his whole life with the absence of any number on his chest. On recount days he always found solace in the fact that a number had never appeared on his chest. He felt that if he never had a count then he was leading a somewhat good life. Every recount day was a sight of relief to know it was smooth sailing for the next month.
Kevin pushed himself up off the bed and yawned. "*Recount day today, work, library, home. Might was well start the day.*" he thought as he prepared clothes and got a towel for a shower.
The ritual began of setting out clean clothes, warming up the shower, brushing the teeth and then finally to bathe himself. The warmth of the water quickly enveloped the bathroom and steam had fogged up the mirror, but as Kevin removed his clothes and glimpsed his figure he felt a lightening strike surge of panic at what he saw. Dark cold smooth text occupied the furthest reaches of his chest. He gasped but his lungs had already given out it seemed, the room spun and he felt like magma was bubbling out of every pore of his body. He finally raised his hand and slowly edged toward the mirror, his disbelief now fading and his terror now rising. Kevin wiped the mirror and stared at the number now occupying nearly his entire front. Three million. He looked down to make sure his eyes did not deceive him, they did not. The number made his mind race and ears ring so loud he was sure his head would explode. That three, that ugly curved bastard, that 'three in the morning' three he hated so much. He looked at the three accompanied by the six zeros, it was laughing at him uncontrollably and maniacally, almost as if to blaspheme Kevin's name. He looked back up again and stared, like a statue now, as the steam again fogged up the mirror until the number was just a blur of pale and black.
*"Holy fucking shit...*" Kevin whispered.
| As I stepped out of the shower, I checked myself as I always did. 1. Eventually, like everyone, I would be responsible for my own death and my own death only.
I pulled on my work clothes, left my cabin and made my way down to the engine room. It's a long slog down from the accommodation and I was sweating profusely by the time I got there.
"Morning Chief!" I greeted the boss.
He replied in his usual, flat tone. "Job in for you. Main prop is fluctuating slightly and the old man wants it sorted before we make port later on today".
Great, I thought. Another day in the depths of hell, roasting away by the main engine and prop shaft. Ah well, nothing for it. I didn't have much time before we made our final turn and these modern liquid gas tankers don't exactly respond well. So I grabbed my tool bag and made my way aft.
I quickly checked the engine control panel on the way past. Looked like a simple feedback problem, should be an easy fix. I picked up a spare potentiometer and headed for the interface box.
"Strange" I thought. "Smells slightly scorched, like a short circuit. Ozone. Best get this done quickly.
That was the mistake. I forgot to isolate the controllers before opening the box. The short I thought I smelled must have moved when I opened the door and there was a blinding flash, some flame and a lot of smoke. I also felt like someone had punched me in the ribs.
Horrified, I ripped off my coveralls and lifted my shirt. There, burning like flame, was the figure 3, 973,145.
Comprehension slowly dawned on me as I heard the main propeller ramp up to full speed. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Every month the number is the same. It is the number one. I have tried to raise the number but no matter what I do it stays the same. The second person I hit with my car went on to become a double amputee. The quadriplegic I pushed down the stairs landed right side up. I've slashed throats, shot police officers in the chest, burned down nursing homes, and yet the number on my chest never changes.
Across the city my face flashes a hundred times an hour. To some I'm criminally insane and to others I am the dunce killer. I am ridiculed and yet feared. For the hundreds of times I have struck at least one will die. I am the serial killer with a one percent record.
"I thought he was a nice boy. Always helping me with my groceries."
I know the voice. I glance up and there is my Grandmother telling the world about another failure.
"And then one day he just ups and whacks me in the head with a bat." She says, "Thank God it was a nerf one or he might have actually done some damage. He just kept pounding me screaming, 'Die! Die! Die!' You ask me I think he's a little bit retarded." She opens up her blouse displaying a number eight in bright cobalt blue that gleams between her breasts. "I get that just driving to the market once a month."
Tears pour down my cheeks. I'll show them. I'll show them all. I work my way across the wires till I'm hovering just above the life support engines keeping millions of residents safe from the hundred and forty degree heat outside. Out of habit my mind calculates to Celsius and it is sixty. In one minute, time will click forward and the new month will be displayed. This will determine if I leap or not.
I pat the sticks of home made dynamite that pads my chests. Around those sticks of explosive delight I have secured thousands of ball bearings. The damage should be catastrophic. It should take days to repair the engines below. The number across my chest should read into the thousands. Yet, I have been here a hundred times before and always the number has been the same.
One. I hate that number. It is the number of epic failure.
The clock clicks over. There is a ring that spreads across the heartland. A new month has arrived. I close my eyes and make a prayer to Zandu the Death God. Please let my number be more than one. Let his humiliation end with this sacrifice of body and soul. I look down and the number is a three. I almost cry with joy. Three! I was only hoping for two. Then it shimmers and the three suddenly shifts across my breast. It is followed by zeros. Six of them in fact!
I cry to the heavens, "Praise Zandu."
And I leap. | As I stepped out of the shower, I checked myself as I always did. 1. Eventually, like everyone, I would be responsible for my own death and my own death only.
I pulled on my work clothes, left my cabin and made my way down to the engine room. It's a long slog down from the accommodation and I was sweating profusely by the time I got there.
"Morning Chief!" I greeted the boss.
He replied in his usual, flat tone. "Job in for you. Main prop is fluctuating slightly and the old man wants it sorted before we make port later on today".
Great, I thought. Another day in the depths of hell, roasting away by the main engine and prop shaft. Ah well, nothing for it. I didn't have much time before we made our final turn and these modern liquid gas tankers don't exactly respond well. So I grabbed my tool bag and made my way aft.
I quickly checked the engine control panel on the way past. Looked like a simple feedback problem, should be an easy fix. I picked up a spare potentiometer and headed for the interface box.
"Strange" I thought. "Smells slightly scorched, like a short circuit. Ozone. Best get this done quickly.
That was the mistake. I forgot to isolate the controllers before opening the box. The short I thought I smelled must have moved when I opened the door and there was a blinding flash, some flame and a lot of smoke. I also felt like someone had punched me in the ribs.
Horrified, I ripped off my coveralls and lifted my shirt. There, burning like flame, was the figure 3, 973,145.
Comprehension slowly dawned on me as I heard the main propeller ramp up to full speed. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The first thing I did was count them. One, two, three... six. Six zeros. Each one stamped proudly across my chest, starting with a three. Three million? How could this happen?
The number was just a one last night, I remembered seeing it right before bed. It had been that way for two weeks. Even though the number says you killed them, it is more often than not an indirect kill. Cutting someone off in traffic and forcing them to careen off the road, for example. That, and given the job I have, I honestly wasn't too surprised or worried. But now... this changes things.
I slip into the bedroom and change into my suit for work. My wife, bless her heart, is in bed reading. Work had been piling up more than ever, even with the end almost in sight, so it relieved me to see her looking even remotely comfortable. Her hair, originally pure black, had recently started to grey in the roots. I tried not to pick on her for it. I had no room to talk, anyway.
I tried to pretend like everything was normal, but one glance at me and she could tell something was wrong.
"Honey, what's wrong? You look upset. Did I use up all the hot water again?"
For a moment, I imagined telling her. But I stopped myself. There's no point in making her worry; nobody has ever had their mark be incorrect. Ever. Any time in the next three months, three million people would die. And it would be my fault.
"It's nothing, just work," I say simply. She gave me an understanding nod and went back to her book. That was one nice thing about this job: it got her off my case almost every time.
I checked my knot in the mirror and tried to convince myself that nobody could see the three million stamped on my chest underneath my suit. To me, it felt like the numbers were glowing. I left the bedroom and right away, my work day began.
"Morning, Mr. President," said one of my Secret Service agents stationed outside the door. I gave him a curt nod, and he followed me on my way. | As I stepped out of the shower, I checked myself as I always did. 1. Eventually, like everyone, I would be responsible for my own death and my own death only.
I pulled on my work clothes, left my cabin and made my way down to the engine room. It's a long slog down from the accommodation and I was sweating profusely by the time I got there.
"Morning Chief!" I greeted the boss.
He replied in his usual, flat tone. "Job in for you. Main prop is fluctuating slightly and the old man wants it sorted before we make port later on today".
Great, I thought. Another day in the depths of hell, roasting away by the main engine and prop shaft. Ah well, nothing for it. I didn't have much time before we made our final turn and these modern liquid gas tankers don't exactly respond well. So I grabbed my tool bag and made my way aft.
I quickly checked the engine control panel on the way past. Looked like a simple feedback problem, should be an easy fix. I picked up a spare potentiometer and headed for the interface box.
"Strange" I thought. "Smells slightly scorched, like a short circuit. Ozone. Best get this done quickly.
That was the mistake. I forgot to isolate the controllers before opening the box. The short I thought I smelled must have moved when I opened the door and there was a blinding flash, some flame and a lot of smoke. I also felt like someone had punched me in the ribs.
Horrified, I ripped off my coveralls and lifted my shirt. There, burning like flame, was the figure 3, 973,145.
Comprehension slowly dawned on me as I heard the main propeller ramp up to full speed. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | I could barely write, my past 12 ebooks sold a depressing total of 7 copies.
3 nights ago the number 1 simply appeared on my chest. I honestly did not care, I knew that it was not a big deal, I decided to take my own life anyway and I knew that finally I could finish what I planned for so long. I wrote my last shitty ebook in less than 6 hours. I prepared myself, I diligently ingested 34 sleeping pills and started to fade away. 30 seconds later I clicked enter and the ebook was published, I went to the bathroom, peed, and looked in the mirror. Weird...3.197.001... jeez the ebook will for sure sell a lot more than expected. As I closed my eyes the number went down to 3.197.000. What a glorious death, what a greatl title. Suicide for Dummies just 99 cents
... | Finally made it to LAX. I couldn't wait to get off the plane, stretch my legs, and get to my hotel room before the convention.
All I needed to do was get my one gigantic suitcase from baggage claim and make my way to the taxi platform.
And there it is... a little scuffed up, but I know it's mine. As I lift it off the conveyor belt, it seems a little heavier than normal. But I pay it no mind.
As I walk down to the cabs, suitcase in tow, I feel an itchy sensation on my chest. I duck into the restroom to look in the mirror.
Then I notice the number 3114637 imprinted just below my collarbone. That's funny, it was just a number 1 there previously.
I tried to remember the significance of the number being there as I went back to the concourse. Suddenly alarms started going off everywhere. An announcement came over the PA system: "There has been a security breach. This airport is on lockdown. Please stay calm and remain in the terminal until the situation is resolved."
That's not good. I *really* need to get to my hotel and get some rest, dammit.
I head towards a TV playing a news channel. "Airport security has detained a suspect involved in the disappearance of a nuclear warhead from China, who managed to sneak onto the grounds as an airport employee. It is not clear how long he has been there..."
Suddenly I hear a beeping noise from my suitcase. As I fumbled for the latches, my heart sank. Oh shit, I remember what that number was f-- | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Oh jeez, oh jeez, how did I get myself into this mess, I thought as old man Mr. Philips was laughing his crazy head off.
Looking back, I regret my decision being an art major. If I chosen to spend my college life studying business or some direct major, then I wouldn't have gotten the job to be Mr. Philips assistant. When I first met him at the entrance of his grand mansion, he looked like that wealthy retired old guy, robe, groomed mustache and a head full of lush gray hair. The number 0 was on our chest at the time. He greeted loudly, "Hello and thank you for answering my ad on Craigslist!" We set up the terms that I will be his assistant and the pay was wonderful. Never would I thought that Mr. Philips would go from 0 to 6 million on the crazy kill level within a day.
First, it started with him asking me to help rob a pet store for cat food. I entered the garage and he asked if I could drive him to the Pets. Of course I obliged and the next thing I realized I was driving some fancy Cadillac full of wet can food, a black garbage bag over my head as a mask and Mr. Philips dressed the same declaring that this is how he should of lived long ago. Thank goodness I paid the cashier after Mr. Philips went running out with a cart of cat chow.
Back to now, I see Mr. Philips holding his laser satellite controller in one hand and his cat Sir Bubbles in the other. He was laughing crazy, saying how he would burn giant penises all over the areas of earth. The more he talked the higher the number on his chest appeared.
I had the number 1 on my chest and I knew it was for Mr. Philips. But then Mr. Philips stopped laughing and handed me the controller. I was more confused than ever. "Here you go first. I need you to teach me how to draw a penis and I'll follow your example," said Mr. Philips. My mind raced through options but I could not let my artistic talents go to waste. The number on my chest went to 3 million as I activated the satellite.
Edit: mr. Philips is this crazy old wealthy dude who keeps reoccurring in my dreams. There was a need to talk about him | As I turned in my vote for the 2016 presidency election, little did I know that my ballot was the determining factor in Trump's victory. At that moment, my number, given to all humans since the age of biorobotics, changed from 1 to 3 million and I was certain of the agony I had just unleashed unto the world. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | He stood in front of the mirror, thinking to himself. “I have to pass, I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t pass, if I don’t get in.”
Slowly he tore open the envelope, not even sure he wanted to know. He closed his eyes, slid the letter out and unfolded it.
*“We’re sorry, you did not meet the minimum score to allow entrance to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts class of 1908. You do have the opportunity to apply agai…………………”*
As he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, his number changed.
| As I turned in my vote for the 2016 presidency election, little did I know that my ballot was the determining factor in Trump's victory. At that moment, my number, given to all humans since the age of biorobotics, changed from 1 to 3 million and I was certain of the agony I had just unleashed unto the world. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | I could barely write, my past 12 ebooks sold a depressing total of 7 copies.
3 nights ago the number 1 simply appeared on my chest. I honestly did not care, I knew that it was not a big deal, I decided to take my own life anyway and I knew that finally I could finish what I planned for so long. I wrote my last shitty ebook in less than 6 hours. I prepared myself, I diligently ingested 34 sleeping pills and started to fade away. 30 seconds later I clicked enter and the ebook was published, I went to the bathroom, peed, and looked in the mirror. Weird...3.197.001... jeez the ebook will for sure sell a lot more than expected. As I closed my eyes the number went down to 3.197.000. What a glorious death, what a greatl title. Suicide for Dummies just 99 cents
... | As I turned in my vote for the 2016 presidency election, little did I know that my ballot was the determining factor in Trump's victory. At that moment, my number, given to all humans since the age of biorobotics, changed from 1 to 3 million and I was certain of the agony I had just unleashed unto the world. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The President must die.
His policies are too divisive, too extreme. Sure, he was just voted into office in a landslide a few months ago, but I can see what the general populace refuses to see. And I alone have the power to stop him, stop him with one click of my mouse.
I spent months trying to get close to him and his campaign, months of ground work and socializing and butt kissing. But finally the call came- I had been hired to cater his inaugural dinner.
After that, the plan was a breeze. I knew exactly which plate was his, since he was the only lactose intolerant vegetarian with a nut allergy at the party. I injected his food with the latest in nanobot technology, finished up the rest of the catering gig, and whistled as I walked home.
Now all I had to do was move my cursor over the "Execute" button, click the mouse, and let the killer nanobots finish my dirty work. I smiled, pushed my finger downward, and heard the satisfying CLICK.
...After that, silence. I don't know what I was expecting. The nanobots would take a few minutes to do their dirty work, and even then there isn't much noise associated with a single man dying across town, even if he is the leader of the free world.
Now that my months of planning had come to fruition, what should I do now? Maybe I'd take a shower, put on my pajamas, and enjoy the news of President Thompson's demise on the news before going to sleep.
Before hopping in the shower, I looked at the mirror and jumped back in shock. The number on my chest, the number that had been a bold "1" for the past month, now spread from pectoral to pectoral and read "3,094,296."
What had I done?
-----
Little did I know that across town, the President was dealing with the most tense situation that any President had faced in a generation. He had been alerted that one of our enemies had launched a nuke. President Thompson, displaying his typical calm demeanor, insisted that they make every single confirmation possible before retaliating.
However, he was also pragmatic, and decided to begin the nuclear retaliation protocol. He could reverse course at any time, but getting the codes and The Button set up took a little time. Finally, it was all set up, with only a clear plastic box and a red button separating him from unleashing a nuclear weapon on the enemy's largest city.
"What's the chance that this attack is real, Reynolds?" he asked his right hand man.
"99% sir, but we're getting the final data now."
The President sighed and lifted the thin plastic cover that protected The Button. Once the attack was 100% confirmed, he would have to act quickly, on the off chance the incoming missile took out any key retaliatory equipment.
He heard chatter on Reynolds phone, then saw his confidant's body relax. "It was a false alarm, sir. A computer glitch. There is no imminent threat to the country."
President Thompson exhaled in relief, and then dropped dead. His limp body collapsed onto the table and pressed The Button. | As I turned in my vote for the 2016 presidency election, little did I know that my ballot was the determining factor in Trump's victory. At that moment, my number, given to all humans since the age of biorobotics, changed from 1 to 3 million and I was certain of the agony I had just unleashed unto the world. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | It was a little after three in the morning on a Tuesday. The kind of three in the morning that gnaws at your insides a little, makes you squirm in your skin. *Restless*. It's happened before and will no doubt happen many times again, the mind is wide awake roaring like an engine. All the while the clock, perched on the desk with its ugly neon green LED readout, mockingly plays its silent hour long symphony of three in the morning.
Kevin hated three in the morning. To him it was a punishment, a consequence, a sentence that he concluded he was simply damned to serve. While the world slumbered peacefully on, Kevin sat wide awake in silent contemplation. Sleep never came easy to him, he was about as good at sleeping as he was at calculus- not even close to making the grade. Resigned though, he learned to accept his shortcoming and make peace with his circadian catastrophe. Still, he held animosity toward that one hour of the early morning.
"*Here we are again, ol' friend*" He thought sarcastically as he passively glanced at the time. "*No one in their right mind is awake right now, it's just me and you like always. No matter where I go or what I do, it always comes back to just me and you*"
Over the years Kevin began to resent this hour, he felt as if this was the only constant thing in his world. The isolation, the silence, the emptiness of just him and the face of the clock. He felt stuck in a time-loop, the days dragged on and the routine never changed. Everyday was the same lobotomized script and choreographed puppet show and Kevin floated through it without the slightest skip of the record; yet somehow without fail, he ended up back here at this disgraceful early hour of the morning. Even for how much it was detested, it was the only time he felt shaken awake out of his dismal autopilot existence at three in the morning. For that brief hour he was more aware, he felt the blood move through his body, he could hardly sit still yet he was glued to his seat motionless.
Kevin set his tablet on his bedside table and rubbed his eyes. "Might as well start the day." He chanted his mantra. He said this so many times throughout his life he debated tattooing it flat across his chest, it was almost his daily greeting to the prospect of another sunrise and sunset. He likely would have it tattooed already if not for the death count that already could occupy the skin over his and all mankind's breastbone.
The death count: a morbid indicator of just how many people will meet their demise within that month due to the actions you take in life. It was a strange concept to think about objectively but most had shrugged it off as just another caveat of the human experience. Scientists who studied the phenomenon when it first appeared were baffled at how the future could be predicted by numbers materializing on an individuals skin. Though extensive studies examined the phenomenon, no reasonable or logical explanation could be found. Years passed by and zealots cashed in on the death count forming cults and followings, many people looked to ancient texts and scriptures for guidance but none showed any correlation.
Philosophical and ethical debates soon ensued throughout the nations as to what to do with information like this. Mass suicides were common when people saw numbers on their chests. Men and women both took the lives of their entire families when numbers of four or five appeared. The world was in a state of havoc for a time but eventually the masses found a way to cope and people moved on.
The most perplexing angle to the death count was that the numbers did not lie. Murderers knew how many victims they would have that month, they used the count to their advantage. Stories circulated the media telling of those who tried to turn themselves in when they realized their fate, only to run a red light at a crosswalk unintentionally mowing down their victims. A man's attempted suicide by gun inadvertently hit a gas line in his apartment complex subsequently killing twenty.
Some months a terrifying "1" would appear on individuals chests, yet the deaths would be accidental: improperly stacked top shelf merchandise at the hardware store or simply forgetting to put the emergency break after parking. If one was lucky enough, they may not even be aware or anywhere near those destined to perish by their action or inaction.
Kevin prided himself on going his whole life with the absence of any number on his chest. On recount days he always found solace in the fact that a number had never appeared on his chest. He felt that if he never had a count then he was leading a somewhat good life. Every recount day was a sight of relief to know it was smooth sailing for the next month.
Kevin pushed himself up off the bed and yawned. "*Recount day today, work, library, home. Might was well start the day.*" he thought as he prepared clothes and got a towel for a shower.
The ritual began of setting out clean clothes, warming up the shower, brushing the teeth and then finally to bathe himself. The warmth of the water quickly enveloped the bathroom and steam had fogged up the mirror, but as Kevin removed his clothes and glimpsed his figure he felt a lightening strike surge of panic at what he saw. Dark cold smooth text occupied the furthest reaches of his chest. He gasped but his lungs had already given out it seemed, the room spun and he felt like magma was bubbling out of every pore of his body. He finally raised his hand and slowly edged toward the mirror, his disbelief now fading and his terror now rising. Kevin wiped the mirror and stared at the number now occupying nearly his entire front. Three million. He looked down to make sure his eyes did not deceive him, they did not. The number made his mind race and ears ring so loud he was sure his head would explode. That three, that ugly curved bastard, that 'three in the morning' three he hated so much. He looked at the three accompanied by the six zeros, it was laughing at him uncontrollably and maniacally, almost as if to blaspheme Kevin's name. He looked back up again and stared, like a statue now, as the steam again fogged up the mirror until the number was just a blur of pale and black.
*"Holy fucking shit...*" Kevin whispered.
| As I turned in my vote for the 2016 presidency election, little did I know that my ballot was the determining factor in Trump's victory. At that moment, my number, given to all humans since the age of biorobotics, changed from 1 to 3 million and I was certain of the agony I had just unleashed unto the world. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Every month the number is the same. It is the number one. I have tried to raise the number but no matter what I do it stays the same. The second person I hit with my car went on to become a double amputee. The quadriplegic I pushed down the stairs landed right side up. I've slashed throats, shot police officers in the chest, burned down nursing homes, and yet the number on my chest never changes.
Across the city my face flashes a hundred times an hour. To some I'm criminally insane and to others I am the dunce killer. I am ridiculed and yet feared. For the hundreds of times I have struck at least one will die. I am the serial killer with a one percent record.
"I thought he was a nice boy. Always helping me with my groceries."
I know the voice. I glance up and there is my Grandmother telling the world about another failure.
"And then one day he just ups and whacks me in the head with a bat." She says, "Thank God it was a nerf one or he might have actually done some damage. He just kept pounding me screaming, 'Die! Die! Die!' You ask me I think he's a little bit retarded." She opens up her blouse displaying a number eight in bright cobalt blue that gleams between her breasts. "I get that just driving to the market once a month."
Tears pour down my cheeks. I'll show them. I'll show them all. I work my way across the wires till I'm hovering just above the life support engines keeping millions of residents safe from the hundred and forty degree heat outside. Out of habit my mind calculates to Celsius and it is sixty. In one minute, time will click forward and the new month will be displayed. This will determine if I leap or not.
I pat the sticks of home made dynamite that pads my chests. Around those sticks of explosive delight I have secured thousands of ball bearings. The damage should be catastrophic. It should take days to repair the engines below. The number across my chest should read into the thousands. Yet, I have been here a hundred times before and always the number has been the same.
One. I hate that number. It is the number of epic failure.
The clock clicks over. There is a ring that spreads across the heartland. A new month has arrived. I close my eyes and make a prayer to Zandu the Death God. Please let my number be more than one. Let his humiliation end with this sacrifice of body and soul. I look down and the number is a three. I almost cry with joy. Three! I was only hoping for two. Then it shimmers and the three suddenly shifts across my breast. It is followed by zeros. Six of them in fact!
I cry to the heavens, "Praise Zandu."
And I leap. | As I turned in my vote for the 2016 presidency election, little did I know that my ballot was the determining factor in Trump's victory. At that moment, my number, given to all humans since the age of biorobotics, changed from 1 to 3 million and I was certain of the agony I had just unleashed unto the world. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The first thing I did was count them. One, two, three... six. Six zeros. Each one stamped proudly across my chest, starting with a three. Three million? How could this happen?
The number was just a one last night, I remembered seeing it right before bed. It had been that way for two weeks. Even though the number says you killed them, it is more often than not an indirect kill. Cutting someone off in traffic and forcing them to careen off the road, for example. That, and given the job I have, I honestly wasn't too surprised or worried. But now... this changes things.
I slip into the bedroom and change into my suit for work. My wife, bless her heart, is in bed reading. Work had been piling up more than ever, even with the end almost in sight, so it relieved me to see her looking even remotely comfortable. Her hair, originally pure black, had recently started to grey in the roots. I tried not to pick on her for it. I had no room to talk, anyway.
I tried to pretend like everything was normal, but one glance at me and she could tell something was wrong.
"Honey, what's wrong? You look upset. Did I use up all the hot water again?"
For a moment, I imagined telling her. But I stopped myself. There's no point in making her worry; nobody has ever had their mark be incorrect. Ever. Any time in the next three months, three million people would die. And it would be my fault.
"It's nothing, just work," I say simply. She gave me an understanding nod and went back to her book. That was one nice thing about this job: it got her off my case almost every time.
I checked my knot in the mirror and tried to convince myself that nobody could see the three million stamped on my chest underneath my suit. To me, it felt like the numbers were glowing. I left the bedroom and right away, my work day began.
"Morning, Mr. President," said one of my Secret Service agents stationed outside the door. I gave him a curt nod, and he followed me on my way. | As I turned in my vote for the 2016 presidency election, little did I know that my ballot was the determining factor in Trump's victory. At that moment, my number, given to all humans since the age of biorobotics, changed from 1 to 3 million and I was certain of the agony I had just unleashed unto the world. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | I could barely write, my past 12 ebooks sold a depressing total of 7 copies.
3 nights ago the number 1 simply appeared on my chest. I honestly did not care, I knew that it was not a big deal, I decided to take my own life anyway and I knew that finally I could finish what I planned for so long. I wrote my last shitty ebook in less than 6 hours. I prepared myself, I diligently ingested 34 sleeping pills and started to fade away. 30 seconds later I clicked enter and the ebook was published, I went to the bathroom, peed, and looked in the mirror. Weird...3.197.001... jeez the ebook will for sure sell a lot more than expected. As I closed my eyes the number went down to 3.197.000. What a glorious death, what a greatl title. Suicide for Dummies just 99 cents
... | Oh jeez, oh jeez, how did I get myself into this mess, I thought as old man Mr. Philips was laughing his crazy head off.
Looking back, I regret my decision being an art major. If I chosen to spend my college life studying business or some direct major, then I wouldn't have gotten the job to be Mr. Philips assistant. When I first met him at the entrance of his grand mansion, he looked like that wealthy retired old guy, robe, groomed mustache and a head full of lush gray hair. The number 0 was on our chest at the time. He greeted loudly, "Hello and thank you for answering my ad on Craigslist!" We set up the terms that I will be his assistant and the pay was wonderful. Never would I thought that Mr. Philips would go from 0 to 6 million on the crazy kill level within a day.
First, it started with him asking me to help rob a pet store for cat food. I entered the garage and he asked if I could drive him to the Pets. Of course I obliged and the next thing I realized I was driving some fancy Cadillac full of wet can food, a black garbage bag over my head as a mask and Mr. Philips dressed the same declaring that this is how he should of lived long ago. Thank goodness I paid the cashier after Mr. Philips went running out with a cart of cat chow.
Back to now, I see Mr. Philips holding his laser satellite controller in one hand and his cat Sir Bubbles in the other. He was laughing crazy, saying how he would burn giant penises all over the areas of earth. The more he talked the higher the number on his chest appeared.
I had the number 1 on my chest and I knew it was for Mr. Philips. But then Mr. Philips stopped laughing and handed me the controller. I was more confused than ever. "Here you go first. I need you to teach me how to draw a penis and I'll follow your example," said Mr. Philips. My mind raced through options but I could not let my artistic talents go to waste. The number on my chest went to 3 million as I activated the satellite.
Edit: mr. Philips is this crazy old wealthy dude who keeps reoccurring in my dreams. There was a need to talk about him | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | "Ah, at this point who gives a fuck," I mumbled to myself, thinking back on that time Janet called me ,"like, LITERALLY HITLER." dumb bitch.
I took out the rag from my pocket and began cleaning the console of the nuclear reactor. There always was so much dirt lining all those shiny weird buttons. | I look at the mirror above the sink, I look really tired, splash my some cold water. I look at the number in my chest and a sudden burst of joy feels my being, and face is over taken by grin, all that tiredness and gloom has just disappeared. All those zero make me realize I still have a lot of work to do, I am so closed to my goal. To be eternally remembered, as on who instigated the war between biods and humanoids, the bastards even took our name.
I began to shave as a look myself in the mirror once, in the right corner is my weather report with a date Feb 3rd 2067, it is been such a long time since I had a bath, treated myself properly. I look to right towards a dark poorly lit room, tied to the radiator is a partial remain of a humanoid. I took my time with it, and I pleased to say that it was a joyous experience. Its name was Ainya, Model Evo 4 class B, Bio-synthetic model each with unique face and voice, if I hadnt skinned it, it could had me believe that it is a human too, but I am little to smart for it. Ainya works in nano-medical industry, 4 days ago while returning from working, I electrocuted it and bought it here. With the information obtained I can built a self replicating nano-machine which would eat the core systems of all humanoids.
I have faint memories of childhood playing with my dog and being happy, I also remember the AI wars, in which they won, and all human who choose/ couldnt evolve through enhancement where left behind, But it matters not now, I have all the information I need from Ainya, it is only a matter of time.
will write more definitely, just a lil artist block | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | A Thursday rain had not been forecast. As I walked out of the local primary school I saw the number on my chest, flicker. One had become 3 million. At that moment, not only did I know that the fad of 21st century fatalism had finally reached its peak, but I knew I shouldn't have voted Brexit.
(Terrible story, but topically relevant I hope) | I look at the mirror above the sink, I look really tired, splash my some cold water. I look at the number in my chest and a sudden burst of joy feels my being, and face is over taken by grin, all that tiredness and gloom has just disappeared. All those zero make me realize I still have a lot of work to do, I am so closed to my goal. To be eternally remembered, as on who instigated the war between biods and humanoids, the bastards even took our name.
I began to shave as a look myself in the mirror once, in the right corner is my weather report with a date Feb 3rd 2067, it is been such a long time since I had a bath, treated myself properly. I look to right towards a dark poorly lit room, tied to the radiator is a partial remain of a humanoid. I took my time with it, and I pleased to say that it was a joyous experience. Its name was Ainya, Model Evo 4 class B, Bio-synthetic model each with unique face and voice, if I hadnt skinned it, it could had me believe that it is a human too, but I am little to smart for it. Ainya works in nano-medical industry, 4 days ago while returning from working, I electrocuted it and bought it here. With the information obtained I can built a self replicating nano-machine which would eat the core systems of all humanoids.
I have faint memories of childhood playing with my dog and being happy, I also remember the AI wars, in which they won, and all human who choose/ couldnt evolve through enhancement where left behind, But it matters not now, I have all the information I need from Ainya, it is only a matter of time.
will write more definitely, just a lil artist block | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | He stood in front of the mirror, thinking to himself. “I have to pass, I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t pass, if I don’t get in.”
Slowly he tore open the envelope, not even sure he wanted to know. He closed his eyes, slid the letter out and unfolded it.
*“We’re sorry, you did not meet the minimum score to allow entrance to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts class of 1908. You do have the opportunity to apply agai…………………”*
As he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, his number changed.
| I look at the mirror above the sink, I look really tired, splash my some cold water. I look at the number in my chest and a sudden burst of joy feels my being, and face is over taken by grin, all that tiredness and gloom has just disappeared. All those zero make me realize I still have a lot of work to do, I am so closed to my goal. To be eternally remembered, as on who instigated the war between biods and humanoids, the bastards even took our name.
I began to shave as a look myself in the mirror once, in the right corner is my weather report with a date Feb 3rd 2067, it is been such a long time since I had a bath, treated myself properly. I look to right towards a dark poorly lit room, tied to the radiator is a partial remain of a humanoid. I took my time with it, and I pleased to say that it was a joyous experience. Its name was Ainya, Model Evo 4 class B, Bio-synthetic model each with unique face and voice, if I hadnt skinned it, it could had me believe that it is a human too, but I am little to smart for it. Ainya works in nano-medical industry, 4 days ago while returning from working, I electrocuted it and bought it here. With the information obtained I can built a self replicating nano-machine which would eat the core systems of all humanoids.
I have faint memories of childhood playing with my dog and being happy, I also remember the AI wars, in which they won, and all human who choose/ couldnt evolve through enhancement where left behind, But it matters not now, I have all the information I need from Ainya, it is only a matter of time.
will write more definitely, just a lil artist block | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | I could barely write, my past 12 ebooks sold a depressing total of 7 copies.
3 nights ago the number 1 simply appeared on my chest. I honestly did not care, I knew that it was not a big deal, I decided to take my own life anyway and I knew that finally I could finish what I planned for so long. I wrote my last shitty ebook in less than 6 hours. I prepared myself, I diligently ingested 34 sleeping pills and started to fade away. 30 seconds later I clicked enter and the ebook was published, I went to the bathroom, peed, and looked in the mirror. Weird...3.197.001... jeez the ebook will for sure sell a lot more than expected. As I closed my eyes the number went down to 3.197.000. What a glorious death, what a greatl title. Suicide for Dummies just 99 cents
... | I look at the mirror above the sink, I look really tired, splash my some cold water. I look at the number in my chest and a sudden burst of joy feels my being, and face is over taken by grin, all that tiredness and gloom has just disappeared. All those zero make me realize I still have a lot of work to do, I am so closed to my goal. To be eternally remembered, as on who instigated the war between biods and humanoids, the bastards even took our name.
I began to shave as a look myself in the mirror once, in the right corner is my weather report with a date Feb 3rd 2067, it is been such a long time since I had a bath, treated myself properly. I look to right towards a dark poorly lit room, tied to the radiator is a partial remain of a humanoid. I took my time with it, and I pleased to say that it was a joyous experience. Its name was Ainya, Model Evo 4 class B, Bio-synthetic model each with unique face and voice, if I hadnt skinned it, it could had me believe that it is a human too, but I am little to smart for it. Ainya works in nano-medical industry, 4 days ago while returning from working, I electrocuted it and bought it here. With the information obtained I can built a self replicating nano-machine which would eat the core systems of all humanoids.
I have faint memories of childhood playing with my dog and being happy, I also remember the AI wars, in which they won, and all human who choose/ couldnt evolve through enhancement where left behind, But it matters not now, I have all the information I need from Ainya, it is only a matter of time.
will write more definitely, just a lil artist block | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The President must die.
His policies are too divisive, too extreme. Sure, he was just voted into office in a landslide a few months ago, but I can see what the general populace refuses to see. And I alone have the power to stop him, stop him with one click of my mouse.
I spent months trying to get close to him and his campaign, months of ground work and socializing and butt kissing. But finally the call came- I had been hired to cater his inaugural dinner.
After that, the plan was a breeze. I knew exactly which plate was his, since he was the only lactose intolerant vegetarian with a nut allergy at the party. I injected his food with the latest in nanobot technology, finished up the rest of the catering gig, and whistled as I walked home.
Now all I had to do was move my cursor over the "Execute" button, click the mouse, and let the killer nanobots finish my dirty work. I smiled, pushed my finger downward, and heard the satisfying CLICK.
...After that, silence. I don't know what I was expecting. The nanobots would take a few minutes to do their dirty work, and even then there isn't much noise associated with a single man dying across town, even if he is the leader of the free world.
Now that my months of planning had come to fruition, what should I do now? Maybe I'd take a shower, put on my pajamas, and enjoy the news of President Thompson's demise on the news before going to sleep.
Before hopping in the shower, I looked at the mirror and jumped back in shock. The number on my chest, the number that had been a bold "1" for the past month, now spread from pectoral to pectoral and read "3,094,296."
What had I done?
-----
Little did I know that across town, the President was dealing with the most tense situation that any President had faced in a generation. He had been alerted that one of our enemies had launched a nuke. President Thompson, displaying his typical calm demeanor, insisted that they make every single confirmation possible before retaliating.
However, he was also pragmatic, and decided to begin the nuclear retaliation protocol. He could reverse course at any time, but getting the codes and The Button set up took a little time. Finally, it was all set up, with only a clear plastic box and a red button separating him from unleashing a nuclear weapon on the enemy's largest city.
"What's the chance that this attack is real, Reynolds?" he asked his right hand man.
"99% sir, but we're getting the final data now."
The President sighed and lifted the thin plastic cover that protected The Button. Once the attack was 100% confirmed, he would have to act quickly, on the off chance the incoming missile took out any key retaliatory equipment.
He heard chatter on Reynolds phone, then saw his confidant's body relax. "It was a false alarm, sir. A computer glitch. There is no imminent threat to the country."
President Thompson exhaled in relief, and then dropped dead. His limp body collapsed onto the table and pressed The Button. | I look at the mirror above the sink, I look really tired, splash my some cold water. I look at the number in my chest and a sudden burst of joy feels my being, and face is over taken by grin, all that tiredness and gloom has just disappeared. All those zero make me realize I still have a lot of work to do, I am so closed to my goal. To be eternally remembered, as on who instigated the war between biods and humanoids, the bastards even took our name.
I began to shave as a look myself in the mirror once, in the right corner is my weather report with a date Feb 3rd 2067, it is been such a long time since I had a bath, treated myself properly. I look to right towards a dark poorly lit room, tied to the radiator is a partial remain of a humanoid. I took my time with it, and I pleased to say that it was a joyous experience. Its name was Ainya, Model Evo 4 class B, Bio-synthetic model each with unique face and voice, if I hadnt skinned it, it could had me believe that it is a human too, but I am little to smart for it. Ainya works in nano-medical industry, 4 days ago while returning from working, I electrocuted it and bought it here. With the information obtained I can built a self replicating nano-machine which would eat the core systems of all humanoids.
I have faint memories of childhood playing with my dog and being happy, I also remember the AI wars, in which they won, and all human who choose/ couldnt evolve through enhancement where left behind, But it matters not now, I have all the information I need from Ainya, it is only a matter of time.
will write more definitely, just a lil artist block | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | It was a little after three in the morning on a Tuesday. The kind of three in the morning that gnaws at your insides a little, makes you squirm in your skin. *Restless*. It's happened before and will no doubt happen many times again, the mind is wide awake roaring like an engine. All the while the clock, perched on the desk with its ugly neon green LED readout, mockingly plays its silent hour long symphony of three in the morning.
Kevin hated three in the morning. To him it was a punishment, a consequence, a sentence that he concluded he was simply damned to serve. While the world slumbered peacefully on, Kevin sat wide awake in silent contemplation. Sleep never came easy to him, he was about as good at sleeping as he was at calculus- not even close to making the grade. Resigned though, he learned to accept his shortcoming and make peace with his circadian catastrophe. Still, he held animosity toward that one hour of the early morning.
"*Here we are again, ol' friend*" He thought sarcastically as he passively glanced at the time. "*No one in their right mind is awake right now, it's just me and you like always. No matter where I go or what I do, it always comes back to just me and you*"
Over the years Kevin began to resent this hour, he felt as if this was the only constant thing in his world. The isolation, the silence, the emptiness of just him and the face of the clock. He felt stuck in a time-loop, the days dragged on and the routine never changed. Everyday was the same lobotomized script and choreographed puppet show and Kevin floated through it without the slightest skip of the record; yet somehow without fail, he ended up back here at this disgraceful early hour of the morning. Even for how much it was detested, it was the only time he felt shaken awake out of his dismal autopilot existence at three in the morning. For that brief hour he was more aware, he felt the blood move through his body, he could hardly sit still yet he was glued to his seat motionless.
Kevin set his tablet on his bedside table and rubbed his eyes. "Might as well start the day." He chanted his mantra. He said this so many times throughout his life he debated tattooing it flat across his chest, it was almost his daily greeting to the prospect of another sunrise and sunset. He likely would have it tattooed already if not for the death count that already could occupy the skin over his and all mankind's breastbone.
The death count: a morbid indicator of just how many people will meet their demise within that month due to the actions you take in life. It was a strange concept to think about objectively but most had shrugged it off as just another caveat of the human experience. Scientists who studied the phenomenon when it first appeared were baffled at how the future could be predicted by numbers materializing on an individuals skin. Though extensive studies examined the phenomenon, no reasonable or logical explanation could be found. Years passed by and zealots cashed in on the death count forming cults and followings, many people looked to ancient texts and scriptures for guidance but none showed any correlation.
Philosophical and ethical debates soon ensued throughout the nations as to what to do with information like this. Mass suicides were common when people saw numbers on their chests. Men and women both took the lives of their entire families when numbers of four or five appeared. The world was in a state of havoc for a time but eventually the masses found a way to cope and people moved on.
The most perplexing angle to the death count was that the numbers did not lie. Murderers knew how many victims they would have that month, they used the count to their advantage. Stories circulated the media telling of those who tried to turn themselves in when they realized their fate, only to run a red light at a crosswalk unintentionally mowing down their victims. A man's attempted suicide by gun inadvertently hit a gas line in his apartment complex subsequently killing twenty.
Some months a terrifying "1" would appear on individuals chests, yet the deaths would be accidental: improperly stacked top shelf merchandise at the hardware store or simply forgetting to put the emergency break after parking. If one was lucky enough, they may not even be aware or anywhere near those destined to perish by their action or inaction.
Kevin prided himself on going his whole life with the absence of any number on his chest. On recount days he always found solace in the fact that a number had never appeared on his chest. He felt that if he never had a count then he was leading a somewhat good life. Every recount day was a sight of relief to know it was smooth sailing for the next month.
Kevin pushed himself up off the bed and yawned. "*Recount day today, work, library, home. Might was well start the day.*" he thought as he prepared clothes and got a towel for a shower.
The ritual began of setting out clean clothes, warming up the shower, brushing the teeth and then finally to bathe himself. The warmth of the water quickly enveloped the bathroom and steam had fogged up the mirror, but as Kevin removed his clothes and glimpsed his figure he felt a lightening strike surge of panic at what he saw. Dark cold smooth text occupied the furthest reaches of his chest. He gasped but his lungs had already given out it seemed, the room spun and he felt like magma was bubbling out of every pore of his body. He finally raised his hand and slowly edged toward the mirror, his disbelief now fading and his terror now rising. Kevin wiped the mirror and stared at the number now occupying nearly his entire front. Three million. He looked down to make sure his eyes did not deceive him, they did not. The number made his mind race and ears ring so loud he was sure his head would explode. That three, that ugly curved bastard, that 'three in the morning' three he hated so much. He looked at the three accompanied by the six zeros, it was laughing at him uncontrollably and maniacally, almost as if to blaspheme Kevin's name. He looked back up again and stared, like a statue now, as the steam again fogged up the mirror until the number was just a blur of pale and black.
*"Holy fucking shit...*" Kevin whispered.
| I look at the mirror above the sink, I look really tired, splash my some cold water. I look at the number in my chest and a sudden burst of joy feels my being, and face is over taken by grin, all that tiredness and gloom has just disappeared. All those zero make me realize I still have a lot of work to do, I am so closed to my goal. To be eternally remembered, as on who instigated the war between biods and humanoids, the bastards even took our name.
I began to shave as a look myself in the mirror once, in the right corner is my weather report with a date Feb 3rd 2067, it is been such a long time since I had a bath, treated myself properly. I look to right towards a dark poorly lit room, tied to the radiator is a partial remain of a humanoid. I took my time with it, and I pleased to say that it was a joyous experience. Its name was Ainya, Model Evo 4 class B, Bio-synthetic model each with unique face and voice, if I hadnt skinned it, it could had me believe that it is a human too, but I am little to smart for it. Ainya works in nano-medical industry, 4 days ago while returning from working, I electrocuted it and bought it here. With the information obtained I can built a self replicating nano-machine which would eat the core systems of all humanoids.
I have faint memories of childhood playing with my dog and being happy, I also remember the AI wars, in which they won, and all human who choose/ couldnt evolve through enhancement where left behind, But it matters not now, I have all the information I need from Ainya, it is only a matter of time.
will write more definitely, just a lil artist block | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Every month the number is the same. It is the number one. I have tried to raise the number but no matter what I do it stays the same. The second person I hit with my car went on to become a double amputee. The quadriplegic I pushed down the stairs landed right side up. I've slashed throats, shot police officers in the chest, burned down nursing homes, and yet the number on my chest never changes.
Across the city my face flashes a hundred times an hour. To some I'm criminally insane and to others I am the dunce killer. I am ridiculed and yet feared. For the hundreds of times I have struck at least one will die. I am the serial killer with a one percent record.
"I thought he was a nice boy. Always helping me with my groceries."
I know the voice. I glance up and there is my Grandmother telling the world about another failure.
"And then one day he just ups and whacks me in the head with a bat." She says, "Thank God it was a nerf one or he might have actually done some damage. He just kept pounding me screaming, 'Die! Die! Die!' You ask me I think he's a little bit retarded." She opens up her blouse displaying a number eight in bright cobalt blue that gleams between her breasts. "I get that just driving to the market once a month."
Tears pour down my cheeks. I'll show them. I'll show them all. I work my way across the wires till I'm hovering just above the life support engines keeping millions of residents safe from the hundred and forty degree heat outside. Out of habit my mind calculates to Celsius and it is sixty. In one minute, time will click forward and the new month will be displayed. This will determine if I leap or not.
I pat the sticks of home made dynamite that pads my chests. Around those sticks of explosive delight I have secured thousands of ball bearings. The damage should be catastrophic. It should take days to repair the engines below. The number across my chest should read into the thousands. Yet, I have been here a hundred times before and always the number has been the same.
One. I hate that number. It is the number of epic failure.
The clock clicks over. There is a ring that spreads across the heartland. A new month has arrived. I close my eyes and make a prayer to Zandu the Death God. Please let my number be more than one. Let his humiliation end with this sacrifice of body and soul. I look down and the number is a three. I almost cry with joy. Three! I was only hoping for two. Then it shimmers and the three suddenly shifts across my breast. It is followed by zeros. Six of them in fact!
I cry to the heavens, "Praise Zandu."
And I leap. | I look at the mirror above the sink, I look really tired, splash my some cold water. I look at the number in my chest and a sudden burst of joy feels my being, and face is over taken by grin, all that tiredness and gloom has just disappeared. All those zero make me realize I still have a lot of work to do, I am so closed to my goal. To be eternally remembered, as on who instigated the war between biods and humanoids, the bastards even took our name.
I began to shave as a look myself in the mirror once, in the right corner is my weather report with a date Feb 3rd 2067, it is been such a long time since I had a bath, treated myself properly. I look to right towards a dark poorly lit room, tied to the radiator is a partial remain of a humanoid. I took my time with it, and I pleased to say that it was a joyous experience. Its name was Ainya, Model Evo 4 class B, Bio-synthetic model each with unique face and voice, if I hadnt skinned it, it could had me believe that it is a human too, but I am little to smart for it. Ainya works in nano-medical industry, 4 days ago while returning from working, I electrocuted it and bought it here. With the information obtained I can built a self replicating nano-machine which would eat the core systems of all humanoids.
I have faint memories of childhood playing with my dog and being happy, I also remember the AI wars, in which they won, and all human who choose/ couldnt evolve through enhancement where left behind, But it matters not now, I have all the information I need from Ainya, it is only a matter of time.
will write more definitely, just a lil artist block | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The first thing I did was count them. One, two, three... six. Six zeros. Each one stamped proudly across my chest, starting with a three. Three million? How could this happen?
The number was just a one last night, I remembered seeing it right before bed. It had been that way for two weeks. Even though the number says you killed them, it is more often than not an indirect kill. Cutting someone off in traffic and forcing them to careen off the road, for example. That, and given the job I have, I honestly wasn't too surprised or worried. But now... this changes things.
I slip into the bedroom and change into my suit for work. My wife, bless her heart, is in bed reading. Work had been piling up more than ever, even with the end almost in sight, so it relieved me to see her looking even remotely comfortable. Her hair, originally pure black, had recently started to grey in the roots. I tried not to pick on her for it. I had no room to talk, anyway.
I tried to pretend like everything was normal, but one glance at me and she could tell something was wrong.
"Honey, what's wrong? You look upset. Did I use up all the hot water again?"
For a moment, I imagined telling her. But I stopped myself. There's no point in making her worry; nobody has ever had their mark be incorrect. Ever. Any time in the next three months, three million people would die. And it would be my fault.
"It's nothing, just work," I say simply. She gave me an understanding nod and went back to her book. That was one nice thing about this job: it got her off my case almost every time.
I checked my knot in the mirror and tried to convince myself that nobody could see the three million stamped on my chest underneath my suit. To me, it felt like the numbers were glowing. I left the bedroom and right away, my work day began.
"Morning, Mr. President," said one of my Secret Service agents stationed outside the door. I gave him a curt nod, and he followed me on my way. | I look at the mirror above the sink, I look really tired, splash my some cold water. I look at the number in my chest and a sudden burst of joy feels my being, and face is over taken by grin, all that tiredness and gloom has just disappeared. All those zero make me realize I still have a lot of work to do, I am so closed to my goal. To be eternally remembered, as on who instigated the war between biods and humanoids, the bastards even took our name.
I began to shave as a look myself in the mirror once, in the right corner is my weather report with a date Feb 3rd 2067, it is been such a long time since I had a bath, treated myself properly. I look to right towards a dark poorly lit room, tied to the radiator is a partial remain of a humanoid. I took my time with it, and I pleased to say that it was a joyous experience. Its name was Ainya, Model Evo 4 class B, Bio-synthetic model each with unique face and voice, if I hadnt skinned it, it could had me believe that it is a human too, but I am little to smart for it. Ainya works in nano-medical industry, 4 days ago while returning from working, I electrocuted it and bought it here. With the information obtained I can built a self replicating nano-machine which would eat the core systems of all humanoids.
I have faint memories of childhood playing with my dog and being happy, I also remember the AI wars, in which they won, and all human who choose/ couldnt evolve through enhancement where left behind, But it matters not now, I have all the information I need from Ainya, it is only a matter of time.
will write more definitely, just a lil artist block | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | He checked every night, obsessively, eagerly, that his number remained at 1.
If it tumbled back to 0, he was screwed. He'd have to rethink all his plans, and worse: identify which critical step in his plans had triggered the lapse. Marcus rechecked that all his doors were locked before removing his shirt. He unlocked his secure vest - top of the line, barely detectable when he wore it. It might be a human right to keep your number private, but it never hurt to be safe.
Especially if you're planning a murder. And he was finally sure he was going to do it.
His number was enflamed, the scorch marks indicating it had just changed. He stared disbelievingly at what it said.
3 million.
Marcus jumped when his phone rang. He swallowed heavily and answered while staring at his chest. It was still there, a livid red brand.
"Hey, Mark."
Erik's voice was light, carefree, breathless to share some piece of news. His stomach twisted in fury. The asshole had no shame. Calling him up every few weeks, as if nothing was wrong.
"Hi. What's up?" Marcus strove to match his tone.
"Man, I just had to call you. I'm nearing a breakthrough, Mark. An actual, goddamn breakthrough. I know exactly what to do. The vaccine will work."
His resolve to kill Erik deepened and tightened its hold on him. He watched, detached and fascinated, as the number started changing again, twisting and turning on his chest. 4 million. 5 million. It trembled, and leapt to 10 million. He knew his Death Number Theory as well as the next person, but it was something else seeing it in person. The domino effect.
"I know it will work," he answered mechanically.
Yes, he knew it. Had known it when he'd been a reckless, excited high school student. Bursting with ideas on how to fight the Cors virus. Even then, before the number of deaths had spiralled into unknown territory, it had been colloquially known as the Corpse virus. But he didn't have the resources to test his theories. He was so eager to share his thoughts with a knowledgeable, older scientist. Desperate to get Erik's feedback.
"Well, we'll talk more later," Erik was saying. "Things are insane here. But keep it to yourself, will you? I don't want this leaking to the press. I just *had* to tell you. You originally gave me the idea, after all."
Mark struggled to keep from screaming, and closed his eyes. Erik still didn't know. Didn't even realise what he'd done.
"You know, sometimes, I wish you'd gone on to study science, Mark," Erik chuckled. "Man, when I think what else could be rattling around in that head. Still, the law is lucky to have you."
"Yeah. Lucky," he echoed, detaching himself from the conversation. Watching the number, which had reached 20 million.
"Anyway, talk later, bro. I just wanted to call to thank you. I couldn't have done it without you. I'll call you up when I'm in town again. We should grab dinner - my treat."
Marcus heard the phone click and threw it across the room, with all the fury he had kept carefully contained. It smashed against the wall. He watched the number, still climbing steadily upwards, and smiled. It was comforting, prophetic.
The vaccine wouldn't work without Erik, without the crucial insight that he'd never get to give. He knew his brother: Erik wouldn't share his 'breakthrough' until he was completely certain of it. Well, that wasn't going to happen. He'd make his move this weekend. Earlier than he'd planned, but necessary.
The vaccine would again be his to shape, his to develop. Leisurely, when he went back to school and refined it in the labs. Made it perfect, not the hack job it would be if he let this go. In the end, he would save more people.
No-one stole from *him*. Especially not his brother. | I look at the mirror above the sink, I look really tired, splash my some cold water. I look at the number in my chest and a sudden burst of joy feels my being, and face is over taken by grin, all that tiredness and gloom has just disappeared. All those zero make me realize I still have a lot of work to do, I am so closed to my goal. To be eternally remembered, as on who instigated the war between biods and humanoids, the bastards even took our name.
I began to shave as a look myself in the mirror once, in the right corner is my weather report with a date Feb 3rd 2067, it is been such a long time since I had a bath, treated myself properly. I look to right towards a dark poorly lit room, tied to the radiator is a partial remain of a humanoid. I took my time with it, and I pleased to say that it was a joyous experience. Its name was Ainya, Model Evo 4 class B, Bio-synthetic model each with unique face and voice, if I hadnt skinned it, it could had me believe that it is a human too, but I am little to smart for it. Ainya works in nano-medical industry, 4 days ago while returning from working, I electrocuted it and bought it here. With the information obtained I can built a self replicating nano-machine which would eat the core systems of all humanoids.
I have faint memories of childhood playing with my dog and being happy, I also remember the AI wars, in which they won, and all human who choose/ couldnt evolve through enhancement where left behind, But it matters not now, I have all the information I need from Ainya, it is only a matter of time.
will write more definitely, just a lil artist block | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | A Thursday rain had not been forecast. As I walked out of the local primary school I saw the number on my chest, flicker. One had become 3 million. At that moment, not only did I know that the fad of 21st century fatalism had finally reached its peak, but I knew I shouldn't have voted Brexit.
(Terrible story, but topically relevant I hope) | "Ah, at this point who gives a fuck," I mumbled to myself, thinking back on that time Janet called me ,"like, LITERALLY HITLER." dumb bitch.
I took out the rag from my pocket and began cleaning the console of the nuclear reactor. There always was so much dirt lining all those shiny weird buttons. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | He stood in front of the mirror, thinking to himself. “I have to pass, I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t pass, if I don’t get in.”
Slowly he tore open the envelope, not even sure he wanted to know. He closed his eyes, slid the letter out and unfolded it.
*“We’re sorry, you did not meet the minimum score to allow entrance to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts class of 1908. You do have the opportunity to apply agai…………………”*
As he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, his number changed.
| "Ah, at this point who gives a fuck," I mumbled to myself, thinking back on that time Janet called me ,"like, LITERALLY HITLER." dumb bitch.
I took out the rag from my pocket and began cleaning the console of the nuclear reactor. There always was so much dirt lining all those shiny weird buttons. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | I could barely write, my past 12 ebooks sold a depressing total of 7 copies.
3 nights ago the number 1 simply appeared on my chest. I honestly did not care, I knew that it was not a big deal, I decided to take my own life anyway and I knew that finally I could finish what I planned for so long. I wrote my last shitty ebook in less than 6 hours. I prepared myself, I diligently ingested 34 sleeping pills and started to fade away. 30 seconds later I clicked enter and the ebook was published, I went to the bathroom, peed, and looked in the mirror. Weird...3.197.001... jeez the ebook will for sure sell a lot more than expected. As I closed my eyes the number went down to 3.197.000. What a glorious death, what a greatl title. Suicide for Dummies just 99 cents
... | "Ah, at this point who gives a fuck," I mumbled to myself, thinking back on that time Janet called me ,"like, LITERALLY HITLER." dumb bitch.
I took out the rag from my pocket and began cleaning the console of the nuclear reactor. There always was so much dirt lining all those shiny weird buttons. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The President must die.
His policies are too divisive, too extreme. Sure, he was just voted into office in a landslide a few months ago, but I can see what the general populace refuses to see. And I alone have the power to stop him, stop him with one click of my mouse.
I spent months trying to get close to him and his campaign, months of ground work and socializing and butt kissing. But finally the call came- I had been hired to cater his inaugural dinner.
After that, the plan was a breeze. I knew exactly which plate was his, since he was the only lactose intolerant vegetarian with a nut allergy at the party. I injected his food with the latest in nanobot technology, finished up the rest of the catering gig, and whistled as I walked home.
Now all I had to do was move my cursor over the "Execute" button, click the mouse, and let the killer nanobots finish my dirty work. I smiled, pushed my finger downward, and heard the satisfying CLICK.
...After that, silence. I don't know what I was expecting. The nanobots would take a few minutes to do their dirty work, and even then there isn't much noise associated with a single man dying across town, even if he is the leader of the free world.
Now that my months of planning had come to fruition, what should I do now? Maybe I'd take a shower, put on my pajamas, and enjoy the news of President Thompson's demise on the news before going to sleep.
Before hopping in the shower, I looked at the mirror and jumped back in shock. The number on my chest, the number that had been a bold "1" for the past month, now spread from pectoral to pectoral and read "3,094,296."
What had I done?
-----
Little did I know that across town, the President was dealing with the most tense situation that any President had faced in a generation. He had been alerted that one of our enemies had launched a nuke. President Thompson, displaying his typical calm demeanor, insisted that they make every single confirmation possible before retaliating.
However, he was also pragmatic, and decided to begin the nuclear retaliation protocol. He could reverse course at any time, but getting the codes and The Button set up took a little time. Finally, it was all set up, with only a clear plastic box and a red button separating him from unleashing a nuclear weapon on the enemy's largest city.
"What's the chance that this attack is real, Reynolds?" he asked his right hand man.
"99% sir, but we're getting the final data now."
The President sighed and lifted the thin plastic cover that protected The Button. Once the attack was 100% confirmed, he would have to act quickly, on the off chance the incoming missile took out any key retaliatory equipment.
He heard chatter on Reynolds phone, then saw his confidant's body relax. "It was a false alarm, sir. A computer glitch. There is no imminent threat to the country."
President Thompson exhaled in relief, and then dropped dead. His limp body collapsed onto the table and pressed The Button. | "Ah, at this point who gives a fuck," I mumbled to myself, thinking back on that time Janet called me ,"like, LITERALLY HITLER." dumb bitch.
I took out the rag from my pocket and began cleaning the console of the nuclear reactor. There always was so much dirt lining all those shiny weird buttons. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | It was a little after three in the morning on a Tuesday. The kind of three in the morning that gnaws at your insides a little, makes you squirm in your skin. *Restless*. It's happened before and will no doubt happen many times again, the mind is wide awake roaring like an engine. All the while the clock, perched on the desk with its ugly neon green LED readout, mockingly plays its silent hour long symphony of three in the morning.
Kevin hated three in the morning. To him it was a punishment, a consequence, a sentence that he concluded he was simply damned to serve. While the world slumbered peacefully on, Kevin sat wide awake in silent contemplation. Sleep never came easy to him, he was about as good at sleeping as he was at calculus- not even close to making the grade. Resigned though, he learned to accept his shortcoming and make peace with his circadian catastrophe. Still, he held animosity toward that one hour of the early morning.
"*Here we are again, ol' friend*" He thought sarcastically as he passively glanced at the time. "*No one in their right mind is awake right now, it's just me and you like always. No matter where I go or what I do, it always comes back to just me and you*"
Over the years Kevin began to resent this hour, he felt as if this was the only constant thing in his world. The isolation, the silence, the emptiness of just him and the face of the clock. He felt stuck in a time-loop, the days dragged on and the routine never changed. Everyday was the same lobotomized script and choreographed puppet show and Kevin floated through it without the slightest skip of the record; yet somehow without fail, he ended up back here at this disgraceful early hour of the morning. Even for how much it was detested, it was the only time he felt shaken awake out of his dismal autopilot existence at three in the morning. For that brief hour he was more aware, he felt the blood move through his body, he could hardly sit still yet he was glued to his seat motionless.
Kevin set his tablet on his bedside table and rubbed his eyes. "Might as well start the day." He chanted his mantra. He said this so many times throughout his life he debated tattooing it flat across his chest, it was almost his daily greeting to the prospect of another sunrise and sunset. He likely would have it tattooed already if not for the death count that already could occupy the skin over his and all mankind's breastbone.
The death count: a morbid indicator of just how many people will meet their demise within that month due to the actions you take in life. It was a strange concept to think about objectively but most had shrugged it off as just another caveat of the human experience. Scientists who studied the phenomenon when it first appeared were baffled at how the future could be predicted by numbers materializing on an individuals skin. Though extensive studies examined the phenomenon, no reasonable or logical explanation could be found. Years passed by and zealots cashed in on the death count forming cults and followings, many people looked to ancient texts and scriptures for guidance but none showed any correlation.
Philosophical and ethical debates soon ensued throughout the nations as to what to do with information like this. Mass suicides were common when people saw numbers on their chests. Men and women both took the lives of their entire families when numbers of four or five appeared. The world was in a state of havoc for a time but eventually the masses found a way to cope and people moved on.
The most perplexing angle to the death count was that the numbers did not lie. Murderers knew how many victims they would have that month, they used the count to their advantage. Stories circulated the media telling of those who tried to turn themselves in when they realized their fate, only to run a red light at a crosswalk unintentionally mowing down their victims. A man's attempted suicide by gun inadvertently hit a gas line in his apartment complex subsequently killing twenty.
Some months a terrifying "1" would appear on individuals chests, yet the deaths would be accidental: improperly stacked top shelf merchandise at the hardware store or simply forgetting to put the emergency break after parking. If one was lucky enough, they may not even be aware or anywhere near those destined to perish by their action or inaction.
Kevin prided himself on going his whole life with the absence of any number on his chest. On recount days he always found solace in the fact that a number had never appeared on his chest. He felt that if he never had a count then he was leading a somewhat good life. Every recount day was a sight of relief to know it was smooth sailing for the next month.
Kevin pushed himself up off the bed and yawned. "*Recount day today, work, library, home. Might was well start the day.*" he thought as he prepared clothes and got a towel for a shower.
The ritual began of setting out clean clothes, warming up the shower, brushing the teeth and then finally to bathe himself. The warmth of the water quickly enveloped the bathroom and steam had fogged up the mirror, but as Kevin removed his clothes and glimpsed his figure he felt a lightening strike surge of panic at what he saw. Dark cold smooth text occupied the furthest reaches of his chest. He gasped but his lungs had already given out it seemed, the room spun and he felt like magma was bubbling out of every pore of his body. He finally raised his hand and slowly edged toward the mirror, his disbelief now fading and his terror now rising. Kevin wiped the mirror and stared at the number now occupying nearly his entire front. Three million. He looked down to make sure his eyes did not deceive him, they did not. The number made his mind race and ears ring so loud he was sure his head would explode. That three, that ugly curved bastard, that 'three in the morning' three he hated so much. He looked at the three accompanied by the six zeros, it was laughing at him uncontrollably and maniacally, almost as if to blaspheme Kevin's name. He looked back up again and stared, like a statue now, as the steam again fogged up the mirror until the number was just a blur of pale and black.
*"Holy fucking shit...*" Kevin whispered.
| "Ah, at this point who gives a fuck," I mumbled to myself, thinking back on that time Janet called me ,"like, LITERALLY HITLER." dumb bitch.
I took out the rag from my pocket and began cleaning the console of the nuclear reactor. There always was so much dirt lining all those shiny weird buttons. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Every month the number is the same. It is the number one. I have tried to raise the number but no matter what I do it stays the same. The second person I hit with my car went on to become a double amputee. The quadriplegic I pushed down the stairs landed right side up. I've slashed throats, shot police officers in the chest, burned down nursing homes, and yet the number on my chest never changes.
Across the city my face flashes a hundred times an hour. To some I'm criminally insane and to others I am the dunce killer. I am ridiculed and yet feared. For the hundreds of times I have struck at least one will die. I am the serial killer with a one percent record.
"I thought he was a nice boy. Always helping me with my groceries."
I know the voice. I glance up and there is my Grandmother telling the world about another failure.
"And then one day he just ups and whacks me in the head with a bat." She says, "Thank God it was a nerf one or he might have actually done some damage. He just kept pounding me screaming, 'Die! Die! Die!' You ask me I think he's a little bit retarded." She opens up her blouse displaying a number eight in bright cobalt blue that gleams between her breasts. "I get that just driving to the market once a month."
Tears pour down my cheeks. I'll show them. I'll show them all. I work my way across the wires till I'm hovering just above the life support engines keeping millions of residents safe from the hundred and forty degree heat outside. Out of habit my mind calculates to Celsius and it is sixty. In one minute, time will click forward and the new month will be displayed. This will determine if I leap or not.
I pat the sticks of home made dynamite that pads my chests. Around those sticks of explosive delight I have secured thousands of ball bearings. The damage should be catastrophic. It should take days to repair the engines below. The number across my chest should read into the thousands. Yet, I have been here a hundred times before and always the number has been the same.
One. I hate that number. It is the number of epic failure.
The clock clicks over. There is a ring that spreads across the heartland. A new month has arrived. I close my eyes and make a prayer to Zandu the Death God. Please let my number be more than one. Let his humiliation end with this sacrifice of body and soul. I look down and the number is a three. I almost cry with joy. Three! I was only hoping for two. Then it shimmers and the three suddenly shifts across my breast. It is followed by zeros. Six of them in fact!
I cry to the heavens, "Praise Zandu."
And I leap. | "Ah, at this point who gives a fuck," I mumbled to myself, thinking back on that time Janet called me ,"like, LITERALLY HITLER." dumb bitch.
I took out the rag from my pocket and began cleaning the console of the nuclear reactor. There always was so much dirt lining all those shiny weird buttons. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The first thing I did was count them. One, two, three... six. Six zeros. Each one stamped proudly across my chest, starting with a three. Three million? How could this happen?
The number was just a one last night, I remembered seeing it right before bed. It had been that way for two weeks. Even though the number says you killed them, it is more often than not an indirect kill. Cutting someone off in traffic and forcing them to careen off the road, for example. That, and given the job I have, I honestly wasn't too surprised or worried. But now... this changes things.
I slip into the bedroom and change into my suit for work. My wife, bless her heart, is in bed reading. Work had been piling up more than ever, even with the end almost in sight, so it relieved me to see her looking even remotely comfortable. Her hair, originally pure black, had recently started to grey in the roots. I tried not to pick on her for it. I had no room to talk, anyway.
I tried to pretend like everything was normal, but one glance at me and she could tell something was wrong.
"Honey, what's wrong? You look upset. Did I use up all the hot water again?"
For a moment, I imagined telling her. But I stopped myself. There's no point in making her worry; nobody has ever had their mark be incorrect. Ever. Any time in the next three months, three million people would die. And it would be my fault.
"It's nothing, just work," I say simply. She gave me an understanding nod and went back to her book. That was one nice thing about this job: it got her off my case almost every time.
I checked my knot in the mirror and tried to convince myself that nobody could see the three million stamped on my chest underneath my suit. To me, it felt like the numbers were glowing. I left the bedroom and right away, my work day began.
"Morning, Mr. President," said one of my Secret Service agents stationed outside the door. I gave him a curt nod, and he followed me on my way. | "Ah, at this point who gives a fuck," I mumbled to myself, thinking back on that time Janet called me ,"like, LITERALLY HITLER." dumb bitch.
I took out the rag from my pocket and began cleaning the console of the nuclear reactor. There always was so much dirt lining all those shiny weird buttons. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | He checked every night, obsessively, eagerly, that his number remained at 1.
If it tumbled back to 0, he was screwed. He'd have to rethink all his plans, and worse: identify which critical step in his plans had triggered the lapse. Marcus rechecked that all his doors were locked before removing his shirt. He unlocked his secure vest - top of the line, barely detectable when he wore it. It might be a human right to keep your number private, but it never hurt to be safe.
Especially if you're planning a murder. And he was finally sure he was going to do it.
His number was enflamed, the scorch marks indicating it had just changed. He stared disbelievingly at what it said.
3 million.
Marcus jumped when his phone rang. He swallowed heavily and answered while staring at his chest. It was still there, a livid red brand.
"Hey, Mark."
Erik's voice was light, carefree, breathless to share some piece of news. His stomach twisted in fury. The asshole had no shame. Calling him up every few weeks, as if nothing was wrong.
"Hi. What's up?" Marcus strove to match his tone.
"Man, I just had to call you. I'm nearing a breakthrough, Mark. An actual, goddamn breakthrough. I know exactly what to do. The vaccine will work."
His resolve to kill Erik deepened and tightened its hold on him. He watched, detached and fascinated, as the number started changing again, twisting and turning on his chest. 4 million. 5 million. It trembled, and leapt to 10 million. He knew his Death Number Theory as well as the next person, but it was something else seeing it in person. The domino effect.
"I know it will work," he answered mechanically.
Yes, he knew it. Had known it when he'd been a reckless, excited high school student. Bursting with ideas on how to fight the Cors virus. Even then, before the number of deaths had spiralled into unknown territory, it had been colloquially known as the Corpse virus. But he didn't have the resources to test his theories. He was so eager to share his thoughts with a knowledgeable, older scientist. Desperate to get Erik's feedback.
"Well, we'll talk more later," Erik was saying. "Things are insane here. But keep it to yourself, will you? I don't want this leaking to the press. I just *had* to tell you. You originally gave me the idea, after all."
Mark struggled to keep from screaming, and closed his eyes. Erik still didn't know. Didn't even realise what he'd done.
"You know, sometimes, I wish you'd gone on to study science, Mark," Erik chuckled. "Man, when I think what else could be rattling around in that head. Still, the law is lucky to have you."
"Yeah. Lucky," he echoed, detaching himself from the conversation. Watching the number, which had reached 20 million.
"Anyway, talk later, bro. I just wanted to call to thank you. I couldn't have done it without you. I'll call you up when I'm in town again. We should grab dinner - my treat."
Marcus heard the phone click and threw it across the room, with all the fury he had kept carefully contained. It smashed against the wall. He watched the number, still climbing steadily upwards, and smiled. It was comforting, prophetic.
The vaccine wouldn't work without Erik, without the crucial insight that he'd never get to give. He knew his brother: Erik wouldn't share his 'breakthrough' until he was completely certain of it. Well, that wasn't going to happen. He'd make his move this weekend. Earlier than he'd planned, but necessary.
The vaccine would again be his to shape, his to develop. Leisurely, when he went back to school and refined it in the labs. Made it perfect, not the hack job it would be if he let this go. In the end, he would save more people.
No-one stole from *him*. Especially not his brother. | "Ah, at this point who gives a fuck," I mumbled to myself, thinking back on that time Janet called me ,"like, LITERALLY HITLER." dumb bitch.
I took out the rag from my pocket and began cleaning the console of the nuclear reactor. There always was so much dirt lining all those shiny weird buttons. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | He stood in front of the mirror, thinking to himself. “I have to pass, I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t pass, if I don’t get in.”
Slowly he tore open the envelope, not even sure he wanted to know. He closed his eyes, slid the letter out and unfolded it.
*“We’re sorry, you did not meet the minimum score to allow entrance to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts class of 1908. You do have the opportunity to apply agai…………………”*
As he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, his number changed.
| A Thursday rain had not been forecast. As I walked out of the local primary school I saw the number on my chest, flicker. One had become 3 million. At that moment, not only did I know that the fad of 21st century fatalism had finally reached its peak, but I knew I shouldn't have voted Brexit.
(Terrible story, but topically relevant I hope) | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | I could barely write, my past 12 ebooks sold a depressing total of 7 copies.
3 nights ago the number 1 simply appeared on my chest. I honestly did not care, I knew that it was not a big deal, I decided to take my own life anyway and I knew that finally I could finish what I planned for so long. I wrote my last shitty ebook in less than 6 hours. I prepared myself, I diligently ingested 34 sleeping pills and started to fade away. 30 seconds later I clicked enter and the ebook was published, I went to the bathroom, peed, and looked in the mirror. Weird...3.197.001... jeez the ebook will for sure sell a lot more than expected. As I closed my eyes the number went down to 3.197.000. What a glorious death, what a greatl title. Suicide for Dummies just 99 cents
... | A Thursday rain had not been forecast. As I walked out of the local primary school I saw the number on my chest, flicker. One had become 3 million. At that moment, not only did I know that the fad of 21st century fatalism had finally reached its peak, but I knew I shouldn't have voted Brexit.
(Terrible story, but topically relevant I hope) | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The President must die.
His policies are too divisive, too extreme. Sure, he was just voted into office in a landslide a few months ago, but I can see what the general populace refuses to see. And I alone have the power to stop him, stop him with one click of my mouse.
I spent months trying to get close to him and his campaign, months of ground work and socializing and butt kissing. But finally the call came- I had been hired to cater his inaugural dinner.
After that, the plan was a breeze. I knew exactly which plate was his, since he was the only lactose intolerant vegetarian with a nut allergy at the party. I injected his food with the latest in nanobot technology, finished up the rest of the catering gig, and whistled as I walked home.
Now all I had to do was move my cursor over the "Execute" button, click the mouse, and let the killer nanobots finish my dirty work. I smiled, pushed my finger downward, and heard the satisfying CLICK.
...After that, silence. I don't know what I was expecting. The nanobots would take a few minutes to do their dirty work, and even then there isn't much noise associated with a single man dying across town, even if he is the leader of the free world.
Now that my months of planning had come to fruition, what should I do now? Maybe I'd take a shower, put on my pajamas, and enjoy the news of President Thompson's demise on the news before going to sleep.
Before hopping in the shower, I looked at the mirror and jumped back in shock. The number on my chest, the number that had been a bold "1" for the past month, now spread from pectoral to pectoral and read "3,094,296."
What had I done?
-----
Little did I know that across town, the President was dealing with the most tense situation that any President had faced in a generation. He had been alerted that one of our enemies had launched a nuke. President Thompson, displaying his typical calm demeanor, insisted that they make every single confirmation possible before retaliating.
However, he was also pragmatic, and decided to begin the nuclear retaliation protocol. He could reverse course at any time, but getting the codes and The Button set up took a little time. Finally, it was all set up, with only a clear plastic box and a red button separating him from unleashing a nuclear weapon on the enemy's largest city.
"What's the chance that this attack is real, Reynolds?" he asked his right hand man.
"99% sir, but we're getting the final data now."
The President sighed and lifted the thin plastic cover that protected The Button. Once the attack was 100% confirmed, he would have to act quickly, on the off chance the incoming missile took out any key retaliatory equipment.
He heard chatter on Reynolds phone, then saw his confidant's body relax. "It was a false alarm, sir. A computer glitch. There is no imminent threat to the country."
President Thompson exhaled in relief, and then dropped dead. His limp body collapsed onto the table and pressed The Button. | A Thursday rain had not been forecast. As I walked out of the local primary school I saw the number on my chest, flicker. One had become 3 million. At that moment, not only did I know that the fad of 21st century fatalism had finally reached its peak, but I knew I shouldn't have voted Brexit.
(Terrible story, but topically relevant I hope) | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | It was a little after three in the morning on a Tuesday. The kind of three in the morning that gnaws at your insides a little, makes you squirm in your skin. *Restless*. It's happened before and will no doubt happen many times again, the mind is wide awake roaring like an engine. All the while the clock, perched on the desk with its ugly neon green LED readout, mockingly plays its silent hour long symphony of three in the morning.
Kevin hated three in the morning. To him it was a punishment, a consequence, a sentence that he concluded he was simply damned to serve. While the world slumbered peacefully on, Kevin sat wide awake in silent contemplation. Sleep never came easy to him, he was about as good at sleeping as he was at calculus- not even close to making the grade. Resigned though, he learned to accept his shortcoming and make peace with his circadian catastrophe. Still, he held animosity toward that one hour of the early morning.
"*Here we are again, ol' friend*" He thought sarcastically as he passively glanced at the time. "*No one in their right mind is awake right now, it's just me and you like always. No matter where I go or what I do, it always comes back to just me and you*"
Over the years Kevin began to resent this hour, he felt as if this was the only constant thing in his world. The isolation, the silence, the emptiness of just him and the face of the clock. He felt stuck in a time-loop, the days dragged on and the routine never changed. Everyday was the same lobotomized script and choreographed puppet show and Kevin floated through it without the slightest skip of the record; yet somehow without fail, he ended up back here at this disgraceful early hour of the morning. Even for how much it was detested, it was the only time he felt shaken awake out of his dismal autopilot existence at three in the morning. For that brief hour he was more aware, he felt the blood move through his body, he could hardly sit still yet he was glued to his seat motionless.
Kevin set his tablet on his bedside table and rubbed his eyes. "Might as well start the day." He chanted his mantra. He said this so many times throughout his life he debated tattooing it flat across his chest, it was almost his daily greeting to the prospect of another sunrise and sunset. He likely would have it tattooed already if not for the death count that already could occupy the skin over his and all mankind's breastbone.
The death count: a morbid indicator of just how many people will meet their demise within that month due to the actions you take in life. It was a strange concept to think about objectively but most had shrugged it off as just another caveat of the human experience. Scientists who studied the phenomenon when it first appeared were baffled at how the future could be predicted by numbers materializing on an individuals skin. Though extensive studies examined the phenomenon, no reasonable or logical explanation could be found. Years passed by and zealots cashed in on the death count forming cults and followings, many people looked to ancient texts and scriptures for guidance but none showed any correlation.
Philosophical and ethical debates soon ensued throughout the nations as to what to do with information like this. Mass suicides were common when people saw numbers on their chests. Men and women both took the lives of their entire families when numbers of four or five appeared. The world was in a state of havoc for a time but eventually the masses found a way to cope and people moved on.
The most perplexing angle to the death count was that the numbers did not lie. Murderers knew how many victims they would have that month, they used the count to their advantage. Stories circulated the media telling of those who tried to turn themselves in when they realized their fate, only to run a red light at a crosswalk unintentionally mowing down their victims. A man's attempted suicide by gun inadvertently hit a gas line in his apartment complex subsequently killing twenty.
Some months a terrifying "1" would appear on individuals chests, yet the deaths would be accidental: improperly stacked top shelf merchandise at the hardware store or simply forgetting to put the emergency break after parking. If one was lucky enough, they may not even be aware or anywhere near those destined to perish by their action or inaction.
Kevin prided himself on going his whole life with the absence of any number on his chest. On recount days he always found solace in the fact that a number had never appeared on his chest. He felt that if he never had a count then he was leading a somewhat good life. Every recount day was a sight of relief to know it was smooth sailing for the next month.
Kevin pushed himself up off the bed and yawned. "*Recount day today, work, library, home. Might was well start the day.*" he thought as he prepared clothes and got a towel for a shower.
The ritual began of setting out clean clothes, warming up the shower, brushing the teeth and then finally to bathe himself. The warmth of the water quickly enveloped the bathroom and steam had fogged up the mirror, but as Kevin removed his clothes and glimpsed his figure he felt a lightening strike surge of panic at what he saw. Dark cold smooth text occupied the furthest reaches of his chest. He gasped but his lungs had already given out it seemed, the room spun and he felt like magma was bubbling out of every pore of his body. He finally raised his hand and slowly edged toward the mirror, his disbelief now fading and his terror now rising. Kevin wiped the mirror and stared at the number now occupying nearly his entire front. Three million. He looked down to make sure his eyes did not deceive him, they did not. The number made his mind race and ears ring so loud he was sure his head would explode. That three, that ugly curved bastard, that 'three in the morning' three he hated so much. He looked at the three accompanied by the six zeros, it was laughing at him uncontrollably and maniacally, almost as if to blaspheme Kevin's name. He looked back up again and stared, like a statue now, as the steam again fogged up the mirror until the number was just a blur of pale and black.
*"Holy fucking shit...*" Kevin whispered.
| A Thursday rain had not been forecast. As I walked out of the local primary school I saw the number on my chest, flicker. One had become 3 million. At that moment, not only did I know that the fad of 21st century fatalism had finally reached its peak, but I knew I shouldn't have voted Brexit.
(Terrible story, but topically relevant I hope) | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | Every month the number is the same. It is the number one. I have tried to raise the number but no matter what I do it stays the same. The second person I hit with my car went on to become a double amputee. The quadriplegic I pushed down the stairs landed right side up. I've slashed throats, shot police officers in the chest, burned down nursing homes, and yet the number on my chest never changes.
Across the city my face flashes a hundred times an hour. To some I'm criminally insane and to others I am the dunce killer. I am ridiculed and yet feared. For the hundreds of times I have struck at least one will die. I am the serial killer with a one percent record.
"I thought he was a nice boy. Always helping me with my groceries."
I know the voice. I glance up and there is my Grandmother telling the world about another failure.
"And then one day he just ups and whacks me in the head with a bat." She says, "Thank God it was a nerf one or he might have actually done some damage. He just kept pounding me screaming, 'Die! Die! Die!' You ask me I think he's a little bit retarded." She opens up her blouse displaying a number eight in bright cobalt blue that gleams between her breasts. "I get that just driving to the market once a month."
Tears pour down my cheeks. I'll show them. I'll show them all. I work my way across the wires till I'm hovering just above the life support engines keeping millions of residents safe from the hundred and forty degree heat outside. Out of habit my mind calculates to Celsius and it is sixty. In one minute, time will click forward and the new month will be displayed. This will determine if I leap or not.
I pat the sticks of home made dynamite that pads my chests. Around those sticks of explosive delight I have secured thousands of ball bearings. The damage should be catastrophic. It should take days to repair the engines below. The number across my chest should read into the thousands. Yet, I have been here a hundred times before and always the number has been the same.
One. I hate that number. It is the number of epic failure.
The clock clicks over. There is a ring that spreads across the heartland. A new month has arrived. I close my eyes and make a prayer to Zandu the Death God. Please let my number be more than one. Let his humiliation end with this sacrifice of body and soul. I look down and the number is a three. I almost cry with joy. Three! I was only hoping for two. Then it shimmers and the three suddenly shifts across my breast. It is followed by zeros. Six of them in fact!
I cry to the heavens, "Praise Zandu."
And I leap. | A Thursday rain had not been forecast. As I walked out of the local primary school I saw the number on my chest, flicker. One had become 3 million. At that moment, not only did I know that the fad of 21st century fatalism had finally reached its peak, but I knew I shouldn't have voted Brexit.
(Terrible story, but topically relevant I hope) | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The first thing I did was count them. One, two, three... six. Six zeros. Each one stamped proudly across my chest, starting with a three. Three million? How could this happen?
The number was just a one last night, I remembered seeing it right before bed. It had been that way for two weeks. Even though the number says you killed them, it is more often than not an indirect kill. Cutting someone off in traffic and forcing them to careen off the road, for example. That, and given the job I have, I honestly wasn't too surprised or worried. But now... this changes things.
I slip into the bedroom and change into my suit for work. My wife, bless her heart, is in bed reading. Work had been piling up more than ever, even with the end almost in sight, so it relieved me to see her looking even remotely comfortable. Her hair, originally pure black, had recently started to grey in the roots. I tried not to pick on her for it. I had no room to talk, anyway.
I tried to pretend like everything was normal, but one glance at me and she could tell something was wrong.
"Honey, what's wrong? You look upset. Did I use up all the hot water again?"
For a moment, I imagined telling her. But I stopped myself. There's no point in making her worry; nobody has ever had their mark be incorrect. Ever. Any time in the next three months, three million people would die. And it would be my fault.
"It's nothing, just work," I say simply. She gave me an understanding nod and went back to her book. That was one nice thing about this job: it got her off my case almost every time.
I checked my knot in the mirror and tried to convince myself that nobody could see the three million stamped on my chest underneath my suit. To me, it felt like the numbers were glowing. I left the bedroom and right away, my work day began.
"Morning, Mr. President," said one of my Secret Service agents stationed outside the door. I gave him a curt nod, and he followed me on my way. | A Thursday rain had not been forecast. As I walked out of the local primary school I saw the number on my chest, flicker. One had become 3 million. At that moment, not only did I know that the fad of 21st century fatalism had finally reached its peak, but I knew I shouldn't have voted Brexit.
(Terrible story, but topically relevant I hope) | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | I could barely write, my past 12 ebooks sold a depressing total of 7 copies.
3 nights ago the number 1 simply appeared on my chest. I honestly did not care, I knew that it was not a big deal, I decided to take my own life anyway and I knew that finally I could finish what I planned for so long. I wrote my last shitty ebook in less than 6 hours. I prepared myself, I diligently ingested 34 sleeping pills and started to fade away. 30 seconds later I clicked enter and the ebook was published, I went to the bathroom, peed, and looked in the mirror. Weird...3.197.001... jeez the ebook will for sure sell a lot more than expected. As I closed my eyes the number went down to 3.197.000. What a glorious death, what a greatl title. Suicide for Dummies just 99 cents
... | He stood in front of the mirror, thinking to himself. “I have to pass, I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t pass, if I don’t get in.”
Slowly he tore open the envelope, not even sure he wanted to know. He closed his eyes, slid the letter out and unfolded it.
*“We’re sorry, you did not meet the minimum score to allow entrance to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts class of 1908. You do have the opportunity to apply agai…………………”*
As he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, his number changed.
| |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The first thing I did was count them. One, two, three... six. Six zeros. Each one stamped proudly across my chest, starting with a three. Three million? How could this happen?
The number was just a one last night, I remembered seeing it right before bed. It had been that way for two weeks. Even though the number says you killed them, it is more often than not an indirect kill. Cutting someone off in traffic and forcing them to careen off the road, for example. That, and given the job I have, I honestly wasn't too surprised or worried. But now... this changes things.
I slip into the bedroom and change into my suit for work. My wife, bless her heart, is in bed reading. Work had been piling up more than ever, even with the end almost in sight, so it relieved me to see her looking even remotely comfortable. Her hair, originally pure black, had recently started to grey in the roots. I tried not to pick on her for it. I had no room to talk, anyway.
I tried to pretend like everything was normal, but one glance at me and she could tell something was wrong.
"Honey, what's wrong? You look upset. Did I use up all the hot water again?"
For a moment, I imagined telling her. But I stopped myself. There's no point in making her worry; nobody has ever had their mark be incorrect. Ever. Any time in the next three months, three million people would die. And it would be my fault.
"It's nothing, just work," I say simply. She gave me an understanding nod and went back to her book. That was one nice thing about this job: it got her off my case almost every time.
I checked my knot in the mirror and tried to convince myself that nobody could see the three million stamped on my chest underneath my suit. To me, it felt like the numbers were glowing. I left the bedroom and right away, my work day began.
"Morning, Mr. President," said one of my Secret Service agents stationed outside the door. I gave him a curt nod, and he followed me on my way. | The President must die.
His policies are too divisive, too extreme. Sure, he was just voted into office in a landslide a few months ago, but I can see what the general populace refuses to see. And I alone have the power to stop him, stop him with one click of my mouse.
I spent months trying to get close to him and his campaign, months of ground work and socializing and butt kissing. But finally the call came- I had been hired to cater his inaugural dinner.
After that, the plan was a breeze. I knew exactly which plate was his, since he was the only lactose intolerant vegetarian with a nut allergy at the party. I injected his food with the latest in nanobot technology, finished up the rest of the catering gig, and whistled as I walked home.
Now all I had to do was move my cursor over the "Execute" button, click the mouse, and let the killer nanobots finish my dirty work. I smiled, pushed my finger downward, and heard the satisfying CLICK.
...After that, silence. I don't know what I was expecting. The nanobots would take a few minutes to do their dirty work, and even then there isn't much noise associated with a single man dying across town, even if he is the leader of the free world.
Now that my months of planning had come to fruition, what should I do now? Maybe I'd take a shower, put on my pajamas, and enjoy the news of President Thompson's demise on the news before going to sleep.
Before hopping in the shower, I looked at the mirror and jumped back in shock. The number on my chest, the number that had been a bold "1" for the past month, now spread from pectoral to pectoral and read "3,094,296."
What had I done?
-----
Little did I know that across town, the President was dealing with the most tense situation that any President had faced in a generation. He had been alerted that one of our enemies had launched a nuke. President Thompson, displaying his typical calm demeanor, insisted that they make every single confirmation possible before retaliating.
However, he was also pragmatic, and decided to begin the nuclear retaliation protocol. He could reverse course at any time, but getting the codes and The Button set up took a little time. Finally, it was all set up, with only a clear plastic box and a red button separating him from unleashing a nuclear weapon on the enemy's largest city.
"What's the chance that this attack is real, Reynolds?" he asked his right hand man.
"99% sir, but we're getting the final data now."
The President sighed and lifted the thin plastic cover that protected The Button. Once the attack was 100% confirmed, he would have to act quickly, on the off chance the incoming missile took out any key retaliatory equipment.
He heard chatter on Reynolds phone, then saw his confidant's body relax. "It was a false alarm, sir. A computer glitch. There is no imminent threat to the country."
President Thompson exhaled in relief, and then dropped dead. His limp body collapsed onto the table and pressed The Button. | |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The first thing I did was count them. One, two, three... six. Six zeros. Each one stamped proudly across my chest, starting with a three. Three million? How could this happen?
The number was just a one last night, I remembered seeing it right before bed. It had been that way for two weeks. Even though the number says you killed them, it is more often than not an indirect kill. Cutting someone off in traffic and forcing them to careen off the road, for example. That, and given the job I have, I honestly wasn't too surprised or worried. But now... this changes things.
I slip into the bedroom and change into my suit for work. My wife, bless her heart, is in bed reading. Work had been piling up more than ever, even with the end almost in sight, so it relieved me to see her looking even remotely comfortable. Her hair, originally pure black, had recently started to grey in the roots. I tried not to pick on her for it. I had no room to talk, anyway.
I tried to pretend like everything was normal, but one glance at me and she could tell something was wrong.
"Honey, what's wrong? You look upset. Did I use up all the hot water again?"
For a moment, I imagined telling her. But I stopped myself. There's no point in making her worry; nobody has ever had their mark be incorrect. Ever. Any time in the next three months, three million people would die. And it would be my fault.
"It's nothing, just work," I say simply. She gave me an understanding nod and went back to her book. That was one nice thing about this job: it got her off my case almost every time.
I checked my knot in the mirror and tried to convince myself that nobody could see the three million stamped on my chest underneath my suit. To me, it felt like the numbers were glowing. I left the bedroom and right away, my work day began.
"Morning, Mr. President," said one of my Secret Service agents stationed outside the door. I gave him a curt nod, and he followed me on my way. | It was a little after three in the morning on a Tuesday. The kind of three in the morning that gnaws at your insides a little, makes you squirm in your skin. *Restless*. It's happened before and will no doubt happen many times again, the mind is wide awake roaring like an engine. All the while the clock, perched on the desk with its ugly neon green LED readout, mockingly plays its silent hour long symphony of three in the morning.
Kevin hated three in the morning. To him it was a punishment, a consequence, a sentence that he concluded he was simply damned to serve. While the world slumbered peacefully on, Kevin sat wide awake in silent contemplation. Sleep never came easy to him, he was about as good at sleeping as he was at calculus- not even close to making the grade. Resigned though, he learned to accept his shortcoming and make peace with his circadian catastrophe. Still, he held animosity toward that one hour of the early morning.
"*Here we are again, ol' friend*" He thought sarcastically as he passively glanced at the time. "*No one in their right mind is awake right now, it's just me and you like always. No matter where I go or what I do, it always comes back to just me and you*"
Over the years Kevin began to resent this hour, he felt as if this was the only constant thing in his world. The isolation, the silence, the emptiness of just him and the face of the clock. He felt stuck in a time-loop, the days dragged on and the routine never changed. Everyday was the same lobotomized script and choreographed puppet show and Kevin floated through it without the slightest skip of the record; yet somehow without fail, he ended up back here at this disgraceful early hour of the morning. Even for how much it was detested, it was the only time he felt shaken awake out of his dismal autopilot existence at three in the morning. For that brief hour he was more aware, he felt the blood move through his body, he could hardly sit still yet he was glued to his seat motionless.
Kevin set his tablet on his bedside table and rubbed his eyes. "Might as well start the day." He chanted his mantra. He said this so many times throughout his life he debated tattooing it flat across his chest, it was almost his daily greeting to the prospect of another sunrise and sunset. He likely would have it tattooed already if not for the death count that already could occupy the skin over his and all mankind's breastbone.
The death count: a morbid indicator of just how many people will meet their demise within that month due to the actions you take in life. It was a strange concept to think about objectively but most had shrugged it off as just another caveat of the human experience. Scientists who studied the phenomenon when it first appeared were baffled at how the future could be predicted by numbers materializing on an individuals skin. Though extensive studies examined the phenomenon, no reasonable or logical explanation could be found. Years passed by and zealots cashed in on the death count forming cults and followings, many people looked to ancient texts and scriptures for guidance but none showed any correlation.
Philosophical and ethical debates soon ensued throughout the nations as to what to do with information like this. Mass suicides were common when people saw numbers on their chests. Men and women both took the lives of their entire families when numbers of four or five appeared. The world was in a state of havoc for a time but eventually the masses found a way to cope and people moved on.
The most perplexing angle to the death count was that the numbers did not lie. Murderers knew how many victims they would have that month, they used the count to their advantage. Stories circulated the media telling of those who tried to turn themselves in when they realized their fate, only to run a red light at a crosswalk unintentionally mowing down their victims. A man's attempted suicide by gun inadvertently hit a gas line in his apartment complex subsequently killing twenty.
Some months a terrifying "1" would appear on individuals chests, yet the deaths would be accidental: improperly stacked top shelf merchandise at the hardware store or simply forgetting to put the emergency break after parking. If one was lucky enough, they may not even be aware or anywhere near those destined to perish by their action or inaction.
Kevin prided himself on going his whole life with the absence of any number on his chest. On recount days he always found solace in the fact that a number had never appeared on his chest. He felt that if he never had a count then he was leading a somewhat good life. Every recount day was a sight of relief to know it was smooth sailing for the next month.
Kevin pushed himself up off the bed and yawned. "*Recount day today, work, library, home. Might was well start the day.*" he thought as he prepared clothes and got a towel for a shower.
The ritual began of setting out clean clothes, warming up the shower, brushing the teeth and then finally to bathe himself. The warmth of the water quickly enveloped the bathroom and steam had fogged up the mirror, but as Kevin removed his clothes and glimpsed his figure he felt a lightening strike surge of panic at what he saw. Dark cold smooth text occupied the furthest reaches of his chest. He gasped but his lungs had already given out it seemed, the room spun and he felt like magma was bubbling out of every pore of his body. He finally raised his hand and slowly edged toward the mirror, his disbelief now fading and his terror now rising. Kevin wiped the mirror and stared at the number now occupying nearly his entire front. Three million. He looked down to make sure his eyes did not deceive him, they did not. The number made his mind race and ears ring so loud he was sure his head would explode. That three, that ugly curved bastard, that 'three in the morning' three he hated so much. He looked at the three accompanied by the six zeros, it was laughing at him uncontrollably and maniacally, almost as if to blaspheme Kevin's name. He looked back up again and stared, like a statue now, as the steam again fogged up the mirror until the number was just a blur of pale and black.
*"Holy fucking shit...*" Kevin whispered.
| |
[WP] Everyone has a number on their chest showing how many people they will kill in the next month. Yours just changed from 1 to 3 million. | The first thing I did was count them. One, two, three... six. Six zeros. Each one stamped proudly across my chest, starting with a three. Three million? How could this happen?
The number was just a one last night, I remembered seeing it right before bed. It had been that way for two weeks. Even though the number says you killed them, it is more often than not an indirect kill. Cutting someone off in traffic and forcing them to careen off the road, for example. That, and given the job I have, I honestly wasn't too surprised or worried. But now... this changes things.
I slip into the bedroom and change into my suit for work. My wife, bless her heart, is in bed reading. Work had been piling up more than ever, even with the end almost in sight, so it relieved me to see her looking even remotely comfortable. Her hair, originally pure black, had recently started to grey in the roots. I tried not to pick on her for it. I had no room to talk, anyway.
I tried to pretend like everything was normal, but one glance at me and she could tell something was wrong.
"Honey, what's wrong? You look upset. Did I use up all the hot water again?"
For a moment, I imagined telling her. But I stopped myself. There's no point in making her worry; nobody has ever had their mark be incorrect. Ever. Any time in the next three months, three million people would die. And it would be my fault.
"It's nothing, just work," I say simply. She gave me an understanding nod and went back to her book. That was one nice thing about this job: it got her off my case almost every time.
I checked my knot in the mirror and tried to convince myself that nobody could see the three million stamped on my chest underneath my suit. To me, it felt like the numbers were glowing. I left the bedroom and right away, my work day began.
"Morning, Mr. President," said one of my Secret Service agents stationed outside the door. I gave him a curt nod, and he followed me on my way. | Every month the number is the same. It is the number one. I have tried to raise the number but no matter what I do it stays the same. The second person I hit with my car went on to become a double amputee. The quadriplegic I pushed down the stairs landed right side up. I've slashed throats, shot police officers in the chest, burned down nursing homes, and yet the number on my chest never changes.
Across the city my face flashes a hundred times an hour. To some I'm criminally insane and to others I am the dunce killer. I am ridiculed and yet feared. For the hundreds of times I have struck at least one will die. I am the serial killer with a one percent record.
"I thought he was a nice boy. Always helping me with my groceries."
I know the voice. I glance up and there is my Grandmother telling the world about another failure.
"And then one day he just ups and whacks me in the head with a bat." She says, "Thank God it was a nerf one or he might have actually done some damage. He just kept pounding me screaming, 'Die! Die! Die!' You ask me I think he's a little bit retarded." She opens up her blouse displaying a number eight in bright cobalt blue that gleams between her breasts. "I get that just driving to the market once a month."
Tears pour down my cheeks. I'll show them. I'll show them all. I work my way across the wires till I'm hovering just above the life support engines keeping millions of residents safe from the hundred and forty degree heat outside. Out of habit my mind calculates to Celsius and it is sixty. In one minute, time will click forward and the new month will be displayed. This will determine if I leap or not.
I pat the sticks of home made dynamite that pads my chests. Around those sticks of explosive delight I have secured thousands of ball bearings. The damage should be catastrophic. It should take days to repair the engines below. The number across my chest should read into the thousands. Yet, I have been here a hundred times before and always the number has been the same.
One. I hate that number. It is the number of epic failure.
The clock clicks over. There is a ring that spreads across the heartland. A new month has arrived. I close my eyes and make a prayer to Zandu the Death God. Please let my number be more than one. Let his humiliation end with this sacrifice of body and soul. I look down and the number is a three. I almost cry with joy. Three! I was only hoping for two. Then it shimmers and the three suddenly shifts across my breast. It is followed by zeros. Six of them in fact!
I cry to the heavens, "Praise Zandu."
And I leap. | |
[WP] In the afterlife you are given a job by God to answer the questions of people using Ouija boards. | “You want me to what?”
Saint Peter’s rich, booming, impressive voice climbed an octave and he seemed moderately put out. He shifted uncomfortably on his golden chair. “Ouija boards. The strange pieces of wood that mediums use to communicate with spirits. Ordinarily they’re a load of garbage, but church attendance and, as a result, church tithes have been dropping lately. To put it simply, we’re broke.” He frowned. “Streets of gold don’t come cheap in this economy, you know! So anyway, you’re really a borderline case. You lived an okay life, but you were never baptized and you never went to church, so I technically can’t let you in. But, if you do this work for me for a few hundred years, I’ll sneak you in the backdoor.”
I thought about this for a moment. A few hundred years was a long time, and what he was asking me to do seemed wrong. I scratched my arm – my white robes were apparently made out of some cheap synthetic material, and they were itchy. I checked the tag – made in Thailand. Probably part of heaven’s budget cuts. “What are my other options?” I asked.
Peter’s voice dropped back to its dramatic depths and he smiled and said “Well, I could send you to hell.” Somewhere in the distant clouds, an angelic trumpet played a single dramatic note. “Unlike us, they have plenty of cash thanks to all of the billionaires that they have down there. I assure you, they still have only the best in torturing equipment”. An ethereal cymbal crash accentuated the words.
I considered a moment longer. “Ok”, I said. “I’ll take the job”.
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I sat in my faux-gold cubicle and looked out the window at the passing clouds. Just one more sale and I would have made my quota for the week. I started to doze off and was jerked back to awareness by the canned angelic harp ringtone of my desk phone. This was my chance! I picked up the phone – also plated in fake gold – and opened the corresponding Ouija-chat window on my computer.
The voice on the line said “Helloo… This is The Great Ansara, reaching through the unknown… Can you hear us, spirits? I am here with Jenny Walters, and Jenny is seeking her late mother Catherine Walters… can you hear us, Catherine? Guide my hands upon the board…”
I typed into the chat window. Anything I typed would be sent down into the medium’s mind as suggestions, and her hands would be guided to the correct letters on the board. “Yes, this is Catherine”, I sent. Over the phone, I heard the sliding of the medium’s hands on the board (the reception through the phone was excellent), and the scribbling of Jenny as she wrote down the message. I heard Jenny gasp as she realized what the message said.
I heard the medium say to Jenny “Catherine’s spirit is with us now… is there anything you would like to ask your mother, Jenny?”
Jenny gave a small sob and said “Yes… hello mom… I’m just at a really low point in my life right now and I could use some advice. You always used to help me but now you’re gone and I don’t know what to do… What should I do to dig myself out of this hole? I lost my old job and I had to get a new one but it pays less and I don’t have enough to feed little Ben and Jake… you remember Ben and Jake, they were so young when you knew them, but they can walk now…” Jenny’s voice trailed off and she sobbed.
I sent back, “I remember. I was watching as they took their first steps. I will always be with you, Jenny”. None of that was true, but it was so easy to make it convincing.
Over the phone, Jenny sobbed again, and I heard the soft sounds of the medium comforting her. I sent another message: “I know how you can improve your financial situation, Jenny.”
I heard a gasp, and she said “Oh, please, how?”
The time had come to make the sale. I sent back “By switching to car-safe, you can save up to $2000 every month on your car insurance…”
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I wrapped up the conversation with Jenny and hung up the phone over the sound of her joyful sobbing and her fervent promises to rush to the nearest insurance office as soon as she could. I resumed staring sadly out the window. A passing cloud vaguely resembled a dog. Another quota met, and another month gone, I thought. Only 2349 to go.
| The small silver bell on his desk began to chime. Markus rubbed his temples and tapped the flashing accept button on the digital display built into the cherry wood desk. A digital Ouija board materialized in front of him. He sat in silence and patiently waited for each letter to slowly be selected by the person on the other side.
I...W...A...N...T...
The process was torturous.
M...Y...D...A...
The letters shone brightly for a brief instant before fading. The selected letters began to form a sentence at the bottom of the screen. Markus wasn't sure why he had been selected for this position. He had been a soldier in life, why couldn't he have gotten a guardian angel position?
D...D...Y...B
Or almost any other angelic position for that matter. He looked around at the row upon row of identical desks manned by men and women. Each angel sat and stared at their own digital display presumably waiting for letters to appear.
A...C...K...M...A...R
Maybe he would be better suited fighting demons in the eternal struggle. He glanced to the left and saw the tacky poster on the wall that reminded him of inspirational posters hung in mortal offices all over the world.
"God has a plan," it read.
He looked back down at the board and realized he missed a few letters. It wasn't a huge issue because the sentence would complete itself anyway but he chastised himself for his mistake.
The silver bell chimed again signaling the end of the message.
I want my daddy back, Markus.
His breath caught in his throat. Isabell? Markus pressed the eye icon on the digital pad. The screen changed to a birds eye view of the Earth. He zoomed in over and over getting closer and closer to the location of the Ouija board. Finally his view hung above a small house in a rundown neighborhood. He pressed zoom again and let out a small sob. Sitting on the living room floor of the house was his daughter and wife. They both held the small plastic token waiting for a response. He could see the tears in his wife's eyes and the hope in his daughters.
Markus began to type his response.
"I love you, I will always be here for you."
He watched the token move from letter to letter and his wife read each one aloud. When she finished he could see her heart break, the tears running unchecked down her cheeks. Isabell looked up as if she could see him above her, and smiled.
---
Great prompt!! Thank you for reading, check out /r/Written4Reddit for more stories! | |
[WP] In an alternate universe, a symbol appears on a person's forearm when they come in physical contact with their soulmate. After a long night of partying you wake up alone in your own bed with very little memory of the night before and a symbol etched into your skin. | My eyes cracked open, squinting in the sunlight beaming in from the wide-open window next to me. I could hear the sirens and shouts of midday, and I groaned. I was supposed to do laundry early this morning. The machines would all be taken by now.
Naked save my boxers, I sat up and almost fell over. Fuck, my head was heavy, and pounding, and my stomach felt like someone turned it inside out and rinsed it with a power washer.
Why do I ever go out with Kyle.
Probably because I'm just as big of an asshole as he is.
I brought a hand (albeit slowly) up to my face - and that's when I saw it. A little circle, with a line slashed across it, just on the inside of my wrist.
Fuck.
A soulmate mark, after a night like last night?! I looked around me, but there was no sign that someone else had been there. Well good, at least I didn't ruin it by sleeping with her that wasted. I knew too many people who fucked up their first meeting. Damnit, damnit! I can't believe I met her! And that I don't remember!
I wracked my brain as I patted around my bed for my phone. There was Kyle's to pregame, but that was just the boys, and I don't think any of *them* would share my mark. Our mark, I guess. Anyway, then there was... shit, Flannigan's? Did I meet my soulmate at fucking Flannigan's?!
No phone in my bed, shit. Probably left it in the bathroom or something. I kicked my way through the crap on my floor, glancing for my phone in the mess, but still no where.
On to the bathroom, nothing.
Kitchen, nada.
I opened the cabinet, desperate for a glass of water, maybe coffee, aspirin, grease, jeez ANYTHING at this point, and my stomach growled in agreement. I started filling the coffee pot with water.
This was so typical of me, to get too drunk and lose my phone on one of the most important nights of my life.
Sure, I was being dramatic - it was just my soulmate mark. Plenty of people married outside the mark, after life got in the way and it didn't work out or whatever. But, well, this was what I was waiting for. Finding my soulmate was always going to be my turning point - quit the shit job, clean up, get my act together. And my friends all got their marks, found their people. They'd been pairing off in marriage for the last couple years now. I'm happy for them and shit, but... whatever.
I mean I was really preoccupied by it. Maybe I just needed the excuse to do better. Or I just wanted to get laid. Damn, maybe it was better this way. Maybe I shouldn't screw up somebody else's life too.
I went to fill the coffee maker and... of course, I'm out of coffee. Fuck everything, right? Of course I didn't buy more. I'm such a fuck.
Spotting last night's clothes out of the corner of my eye - because of course I shed them as soon as I walked in the door instead of walking the 18 steps to my fucking room - I sighed and grabbed the jeans. I'd just walk down and get some coffee. At least that would get me out of here - I hated when I went on these spirals, when I didn't feel like I could do anything right. The evening's shirt had a wonderful yellow mustard stain across the front, so I found a tee from my room and hit the bricks.
Outside was mockingly beautiful, as if the universe knew I was supposed to be happy today. I should've nabbed my sunglasses too, but to be honest I probably would've forgotten my wallet if it hadn't still been in the pocket of my jeans.
My pockets! Maybe there was a clue in there! I emptied them into my hands as I walked down to the 24 hr corner deli - well, what I could. A Flannigan's napkin with a particularly graphic sketch of Kyle and another friend, something I did pretty often while out and annoyed with Kyle's antics, and some spare change. I even rifled through my wallet, but I couldn't find so much as a receipt for another bar.
Flannigan's. Fuck me.
The guy rang me up for a large coffee, and I was too pissed (and hungover) to make the trip back down to my shitty, messy apartment yet. I sat myself at a table and began to sketch on a new napkin. Maybe I could go back down there, to Flannigan's, start looking around. I'd have to go there to find my phone anyway, I guess. Damn, I hadn't even thought about my phone - maybe I left it at Kyle's or something. I vaguely remembered throwing it on the charger before we left.
I traced the lines of my sketch - of course, I was drawing the mark on my wrist. The easy symbol, delicate and simple. Some people had crazy complicated ones, with just minor variations from another set, but not mine. Simple, sleek, perfect.
"Excuse me."
I looked up to find a young woman, probably a couple years younger than me, wearing a deli apron and a cautious smile standing at the edge of my table. Her eyes were bright and full, and she had her hair curled up in a little twist.
"I'm new - but I'm pretty sure... were you in here last night?"
"Hell if I know," I replied, and she giggled. She was cute, and if I wasn't so drunk last night, I probably would've made a pass at her.
"You guys were pretty, uh... well you looked like you were having fun," she replied, tucking back a piece of hair. "Except that one reaaally drunk guy - he kept hitting on me, with his soulmate standing right there."
"Yeah, he's a keeper," I said with a wink, and I saw her flush. Huh, even though I was a piece of shit drunk and I felt terrible, maybe I could still make this work.
Or maybe...
"I think you left this," she said, cutting off my train of thought. She reached into her apron, and I craned, trying to see the inside of her wrist. I almost didn't see when she pulled out my phone.
"Dude! Yes!" I shouted, and she laughed again. "Thank you!"
She was wearing long sleeves, but when she went to hand the phone to me, the sleeve pulled up slightly. I looked again, trying to find a bit of the mark on her wrist, but I couldn't. I sighed and sat back.
But she saw the sketch in front of me, and she gasped a little.
"Wait, are you?!" she said as she pulled up her sleeve. The little circle and line on her wrist matched mine to a t, and I smiled broadly.
"I just- can you-" she looked around - the guy at the counter did seem a little pissed that she was still talking to me. "I get off in 5!"
I laughed and gave another big, toothy smile. "Wanna grab a cup of coffee with me?"
Eyes bright, she nodded, and shouted a quick, "I'll be right back!" as she turned on her heel and ran into the kitchen to hang up the apron.
My smile began to fade as a sinking feeling fell over me. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. It didn't feel right - she wasn't, and I wasn't...
I started to piece together the night - specifically, being here with Kyle and Stephanie and the boys at the end of it. I looked down at my wrist with a mix of horror and disgust, and I licked my finger and wiped at the edge of the mark. The imprint smudged down my arm.
Yeah.
That's about right. | I think I spent an hour staring at it when I first woke up. This curious, marvelous, joy-inducing sigil. The skin around it was smooth, the symbol a softly luminous green. A year ago, I had railed against the idea that I would be a green, much to the amusement of my classmates. But here, now... I smiled. I smiled, and my heart buoyed.
Most people never Etched. Most people never felt what was said to be the immediate, painful ecstasy of the Etching. Most people never found their color. Most people, and I was one of them, did their best to shut away the dreams of childhood, the fables of youth, and just *grow up*. Most people married, had kids, and lived the best, happiest lives they could manage. I mean, the odds of finding your soulmate among the billions of people who lived on the planet were staggeringly small, right? You can't live your life with your hands out to your sides, as the saying went. Most people never learned the shape of their sigil, never knew its beauty. But I had. And I did.
I was six when I first asked my parents about Etching. They had smiled, looked at each other with what I recognize now as a wistful gaze, and told me that it was something that very few of us ever experience. I asked them if they had sigils on their arms, knowing the answer already, and my dad held up his bare arm and said, "No, no sigils here, son. But that doesn't mean that there is no love." You can love someone who is not your soulmate, and your soulmate can love someone who is not you. I knew that, but like every child who learns about the symbol, I walked around in public with my hands out to either side, hoping to touch the right person. I did that for years.
As I grew older, into my teenage years, I had to stop. At least, I had to stop being so obvious. I always found reasons to bump into strangers, to brush up against them, to reach out brush something off their clothing. I remember the looks I would get, amusement, indignation, annoyance, attraction... I also remember the day I stopped.
I was seventeen, on a train, heading back home after a week at school. I was seated when I noticed a young woman, a few years older than me, standing near the door to the next car. She wasn't near enough to the door that I could use that as a justification for brushing up against her, so I stood up and approached her. Her eyes passed over me briefly before she absently turned them back to the window.
"Excuse me," I said, placing my hand on her arm. She stiffened, her whole body going rigid. *Would you like to take my seat?* The words never left my mouth. She shifted to look at me, and I saw the sigil. The dead sigil. There was no light, no soft luminescence, behind the Etching. The look in her eyes, that empty listlessness, when she turned them to meet mine, has never left my memory. Tennyson was wrong.
I fled the car, and I stopped touching strangers until I could be certain they didn't have a sigil. I would never scrounge for a clumsy reason to touch a stranger again.
"Shitballs!" I started laughing. And then I stopped.
*Who was it?*
I cast my memory back to the party, my thoughts a sporadic torrent of images. I knew most of the people at the party, had grown up with them. Mary had a cousin, she touched me shyly, an blatant come on, but I had... Jim had new friends visiting for the weekend, dancing with a red haired girl. Then the new girl, dark hair, beautiful eyes, shy smile. My heart started beating faster. We had talked. Instant connection. Her laugh, *oh, her laugh!* I brought her a drink, but I didn't touch her hand. Deliberately. She had arched an eyebrow at me when I didn't take the obvious opportunity. We both laughed it off. We sat on the couch, inches from each other, refusing to touch...
"Move over, Lovebirds!" Nathan had called, plopping himself down on top of us.
"Gods, you're heavy!" I groaned, slipping sideways, away from her. Nathan had been my best friend since Graders. When I had learned about Etching, he was the first person I spoke to about it. He had brushed it off, being a rather self-important elder at one year my senior, and told me he wasn't going to waste time on waiting for a stupid symbol to appear on his arm. He was a good friend, the sort who always looked out for you.
"You lot look entirely too comfortable!"
I grinned, leaning past him to make eye contact with my dark-haired beauty. She was blushing prettily and was wearing a rather put out expression.
"You, Sir," she countered, "Are a louse and a wretch! Did you just try to Etch me?"
Nathan was appropriately outraged, protesting the accusation. They bantered a bit, and I laughed along with them. When she had been getting the better of him for long enough for him to become flustered, I stepped in, "Not that this is a deterrent to some men, but Nathan here does have a girlfriend." I raised my eyebrows and said in a scandalized tone, "And she has an accent!"
She looked at him dubiously before turning to whisper to me, "I find *that* hard to believe."
"I believe," I said, "He's actually planning on proposing to her tonight. Isn't that right, Natey-boy?" I grabbed at him, trying to put him in a headlock, but he struggled out of it and pushed me up off the couch.
"Our boy here is telling the truth," Nathan said, pulling a small, velvet-covered box from his jacket. "Now," he said, turning to me, "Go get us a drink while I tell *your* lady friend here about *my* lady friend." Nathan winked at me and shooed me off.
I laid back on my bed, stretching languidly. I couldn't stop smiling. *When had we touched?*
I had come back to the couch, managing to make it all the way from the counter-turned-bar without spilling anything. I passed the drinks around, avoiding her fingers by a breath and with a teasing smile. She laughed and made a pout at me. Nathan was carrying on about how he had met his girlfriend, a story I had heard a thousand times, so I finished it for him. "And so they met on the pier after their families had gone back to their hotels, and they talked all night and watched the sun rise over the ocean, and it shone in her honey-blond hair, blah blah blah."
"Oh hush, let him tell it," said the girl. Swatting playfully at me, just missing.
Nathan gave me a mock scowl. "Well, no, it's ruined now. But, you guys can meet her in about an hour or so. Now," he said, standing and offering her his hand. "Do you dance?"
"I do," she said as she took his hand, looking at me as she did. "And I am brilliant."
And she was. I watched them dance, and she spun in his arms. She glided gracefully, rhythmically. Sultry and frivolous by turns. I sat back on the couch, marveling at her. She smiled so wide, so bright, so free. And every once in a while, she would turn, and she would share her smile with me.
After one such smile, I wandered back to the bar to grab a few bottles of water. She and Nathan would both want one when they were done dancing. I could see where sweat had matted her hair to her temples, and his forehead glistened. He was whispering to her, and they were both looking at me, and they laughed. I gave them my best *whatever* look and dangled made a show of putting the bottles of water down. She cried delightedly in protest and ran towards me. I held the bottles high overhead, taunting her.
Some things are said best without words. She stretched up slowly, standing on her tip toes, her face inches from mine, sharing my breath. She grabbed the bottles of water holding them from the bottom as I held them from the top, and slowly pulled them out of my hands, twisting away as she did.
"Thanks," she mouthed, then winked and ran back to Nathan, who was in danger of falling over he was laughing so hard.
"My Lady," I whispered, watching her sway away. She turned, catching me looking at her, and narrowed an accusatory gaze at me. I shrugged nonchalantly, then raised my eyebrows appreciatively. She blushed, smiling, and winked.
*God dammit, when had we touched?* I got out of bed, trying to pinpoint the exact moment. I grabbed the glass of water on my nightstand and took a long draw.
I was about to go out on the dance floor myself. I took off my jacket and walked towards the bedroom where everyone had been leaving their overcoats. Nathan could bloody dance in his blazer, but I had no intention of sweating through my jacket.
The light was off when I entered the room. I fumbled vainly for the light switch before abandoning the notion as pointless. I tossed it on the bed without turning on the light and turned to leave, dodging back from someone who was shrugging out of a wet overcoat.
Had it been raining?
"Someone told me this is where the coats go?" came a delicately accented voice.
"This is the place!" I said, turning to see a freckled girl with honey-blond hair. "You must be Nathan's girlfriend."
She smiled awkwardly. "I am. And who are you?"
"I suppose you could say that I'm his best friend," I said, reaching to take her coat.
*No.*
"Ahhh, I have heard of you!" she said brightly. Our eyes met, and I realized she was as beautiful as Nathan said. She held the coat up.
*Nooonono.*
My hand brushed hers as I took her coat.
*"Nooooooo!"* I shouted.
We both trembled, feeling a sharp and beautiful pain Etch into our arms. I shuddered as we fell into each other, clutching desperately and barely managing to keep our feet. We were pressed up against each other, my forehead against hers, gasping for breath, our hearts breaking...
... and forming back together as a single, seamless heart. An ache I never knew I had began to subside, and a tension I had never realized began to ease. I opened my eyes, as she did hers, and we cried the sweetest tears. They were tears of joy, tears of peace, and more than anything, tears of relief, for we had finally, *finally* found each other.
*Nonononononooo!* I was laughing, and I was crying, and I knew that somewhere out there, she was doing the same thing.
| |
[WP] A heroin addict can see the future while she's under the influence. Friends and family continually take advantage of her gift even though it's rapidly killing her. | "Got any jet, kid?"
Ugh. I hate coming to Sanctuary. All of the settlers just hammer random walls and Mama Murphy refuses to do anything except sit in her chair asking for drugs for her "sight". Maybe I'll give her some, she might shut up.
"Okay, Mama Murphy, have some Jet."
"Thanks, kid"
I hand her a canister of jet out of my seemingly infinite pocket. She weakly pulls the canister to her face and uses it as an inhaler.
"I see it kid... a giant blimp.... hundreds of metal soldiers... some sort of giant robot..", she grimaces in clear pain. "That's all the sight can handle for now. The sight's telling me... Mentats this time."
She's probably full of crap. Who's gonna have a working blimp post war? Or a giant robot? Oh well. She wants more drugs, she'll get some. I hand her a tin of mentats. How these make you smarter, and not your breath better, I'll never know. She opens the tin and hastily eats all of them.
"I see.... a man? Half-detective, half machine... it looks like he's... walking with you?" She grabs her stomach as if she's in intense pain. "Oh... Kid, the sight's telling me..." She coughs violently "it's telling me we need psycho.."
Huh. A robo-detective. Funny, because I'm supposed to be looking for a detective to help me find... someone? Oh I forget. It couldn't have been *that* important. Despite my better judgement telling me not to, I decide to give her more drugs. This sight stuff is pretty fun.
I start to hand her the needle, but Preston quickly runs over to stop me. Oh great. I bet another settlement needs *my* help, or even better, Abernathy's daughter was kidnapped for the *third* time this week.
"General, can't you see that Mama Murphy can't handle any more of this? She's an addict! She'll die if she injects any more of that crap into her body!"
"Well Preston, when you're right you're right", I say with a sinister smile.
I quickly stab the needle into Mama Murphy's arm, as Preston looks at me disgusted and shocked.
Mama Murphy looks at me in a daze, "Kid, I see... some sort of bright light... a science lab of some sort? And some sort of... Father? He's your father? No, you're his father? And then... an explosion?", she grabs her chest and starts coughing more violently than before. "Kid... I need... I need..."
Mama Murphy suddenly fell out of her chair. All right! Now she'll stop whining about drugs and the future. Woo! But this stuff about a lab. And my father? Or my son? Wow, I wish I had a son.
But suddenly, everyone is staring at me with a look equal parts disgust and horror.
"General... you.. you.. killed her... I told you not to give her drugs... and you did... now she's gone..."
"Oh well. It happens."
[Preston hated that]
| Jackie entered her house, slouching and rubbing her eyes as she closed the door behind her. She felt so numb, so tired, and at the family reunion next weekend, it would only get worse. She'd seen it already.
What her gift hadn't showed, however, was the scene before her. Jackie slipped around the corner into her living room and jumped. In the lawn chairs, half-ruined couch, and even on the stained carpet sat nearly everyone she knew. Parents, siblings, and cousins, not to mention her closest friends.
"What the fuck do you all want?" Jackie grumbled, tossing her purse to the floor.
Uncle Robert, leaning against the far wall, peeled off like the greasy cockroach he was. "Hey, kiddo. We've been waiting here a while now. Didn't know if you were going to show up."
"Gee, didn't know if I was going to show up at my house?"
"Well you could've been passed out in some crack den," muttered Cousin Jenny under her breath. That bitch knew I heard her, judging by the sly smile twisting her lips.
A thought popped into my head, and for a moment, hope sprang to life in my breast. "Is... is this an intervention?"
Uncle Robert guffawed. "Oh, god no. That's almost the opposite of what we want."
The hope shriveled and died, looking a little too much like her heart. "Then what the hell do you want?"
Carol cleared her throat. That trashy whore was the one who got Jackie hooked on the stuff in the first place. Back in the days when they thought her glimpses into the future were laughable hallucinations. Now she was clean, and I was paying the price. "He's being an ass. Really, we just want one more high out of you. One more, and then we'll all do everything we can to help you."
Narrowing her eyes, Jackie said, "What do you want?"
"Honey, as I'm sure you know, the hospital bills have been quite the financial burden," her dad began, speaking slowly and softly. He looked at Mom, whose wig wasn't fooling anyone.
Jackie tapped her foot against the floor. "So, what? You want me to see when she'll get better?" *Or when the funeral will be?*
"There's... actually something else we wanted you to do," he mumbled.
"Ah, let's just cut right to the chase." Uncle Robert slicked back his thinning hair. "The lotto's just shy of a billion dollars, and we want you to find out what the numbers are."
Not surprised by his bluntness, she simply scoffed. "We've tried this before, you know. More than a few times. The numbers are always so blurred, I can never read them properly." Her glimpses were little more than that--glimpses. They were never wrong, when deduced correctly. The blurry visions couldn't always be reliable, though.
The sudden sound of locking made Jackie spin. Back at the front door, her Cousin Bobby stood before the entrance to her house. Only by the guilty glint in his eyes did she realize he wasn't blocking an entrance.
He was blocking an exit.
"We all pulled our money together," said Uncle Robert, stepping ever closer to Jackie. "And our resources, to find the finest, purest heroin in the country. An ample supply, at that. Don't worry about getting the numbers all on your first high... because you won't be leaving until you get them all." | |
First submission! | [WP] You live a long, fulfilling life and die of natural causes. Everything goes dark and the words "Simulation Terminated" appear. | *Simulation Terminated*
The darkness never lifts. It just ends.
His eyes are already open when he wakes up. He is greeted by a clean, white ceiling. There are two people standing on either side of him. On his right, a well-groomed man in a brand new suit and on his left; a thin middle-aged man in a labcoat.
"...and we're done."
"That's it?" Mr. Smith lowers a mug away from his lips after not having taken the first sip.
"That's it. The simulation is over; it is saved on the hard drive and the subject should remain fully awake." Dr. Klein leans over the reclined seat to make sure. "How are you feeling, Lewis?"
"I'm fine."
"That was fast. I expected it to take longer." Mr. Smith states before carefully taking a sip of his coffee.
"The simulation is run on the computer so it is almost instantaneous." Dr. Klein explains to the man in the dark suit who is now examining Lewis with his eyes.
"Furthermore, the simulation should be considered a dream rather than a permanent experience. The brain will not store the memories but the subject will have learned new skills and information while under."
Lewis begins to experience a sudden burst of panic as he realises the memories from his previous life are eluding him. He attemps to cling on to a memory but he can feel countless others fading into oblivion. His favorite cartoons, his classmates from high school, his first apartment, the office, the lakehouse, all the dogs he had, his coworkers, the honeymoon, the family vacations, the career, the hospital. Grace and the children. He knows he needs to focus. Mr. Smith is staring at him.
Grace and the children.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Mr. Smith asks with more suspicion than care in his voice.
"Yeah..." The last details escape him and only a vague memory of an old dream remains.
"...I'm fine." | Through the darkness ... muffled ... on the right. Enemy? Contact?
"Doctor, her heart rate is already climbing. Brain pattern spiking..."
A mans voice ... to the left ... a hunter model?!
"Begin another round immediately"
To the right ...
"Program?"
Left ...
"Kitten."
An ambush ... we're already surrounded ...
The right ...
"But Doctor, that's a life sentence."
Left ...
"Do it."
... a sigh ...
"She's been in PTSD Recovery Sims for 50 years. She would've come back to us already if she could."
... click ...
Oh ... what a pretty girl ... Maybe if I put my socks in the air she'll see me.
Pick me! Pick me!
Yeah!!! |
First submission! | [WP] You live a long, fulfilling life and die of natural causes. Everything goes dark and the words "Simulation Terminated" appear. | Simulation Terminated
The neon green words flash on a black field and my eyes flash open. I gasp and take off the helmet on top of my head. Feeling dazed, I look at my surroundings and see a disturbing arcade. Horrific creatures of all forms surround me playing foreign games. As my memories start returning, fury and irritation begin to surge within me.
"Dammit Rick, not again!" | Through the darkness ... muffled ... on the right. Enemy? Contact?
"Doctor, her heart rate is already climbing. Brain pattern spiking..."
A mans voice ... to the left ... a hunter model?!
"Begin another round immediately"
To the right ...
"Program?"
Left ...
"Kitten."
An ambush ... we're already surrounded ...
The right ...
"But Doctor, that's a life sentence."
Left ...
"Do it."
... a sigh ...
"She's been in PTSD Recovery Sims for 50 years. She would've come back to us already if she could."
... click ...
Oh ... what a pretty girl ... Maybe if I put my socks in the air she'll see me.
Pick me! Pick me!
Yeah!!! |
First submission! | [WP] You live a long, fulfilling life and die of natural causes. Everything goes dark and the words "Simulation Terminated" appear. | I was born an only child to a middle class family in the suburbs. Life wasn't hard, but it wasn't necessarily easy. A middling life, you could say, with middling troubles and mediocre happinesses.
All around me, people aspired to greatness. My high school yearbook was filled with ambitious smiles, young people with their dreams written clear across their faces. Life took its course, as it does. Some reached for the stars, and others groveled in the dirt to an early grave. In a sample size of mere hundreds of students, oh the innumerable paths we took, the countless decisions we made -- like an endlessly exploding firework, casting colored flames and ash in all directions until it ends and leaves only darkness. Where did they all go?
I graduated and went to a prestigious university. I studied hard and did well my first two years. Felt I was "missing out" so I started partying and taking drugs and hooking up with girls and generally being an idiot. It was fun, but as with all things temporary, it passed. And again I was alone, floating through life.
I barely graduated university but still got a decent job. Recruiters only looked at the name of the university I went to. I worked a desk job for a couple years. Became restless. Decided to travel the world on what money I had saved.
Made my way from east to west. Saw the wonders of the world. Almost died a couple of times. Saw people from all corners of the globe, who laughed and danced, struggled and cried. Nobody was content with the changing world. Looking back, I see now that change was the only constant.
I came back home and started writing. Things I'd learned and what I'd seen. I became moderately successful. Made some money and donated to charity. I never married or dated for long. Everybody wanted something permanent, someone to hold on to. And I knew I couldn't give that to them.
I grew old and cynical, but a hope swelled in me from time to time, that there was something more, something beyond. It wasn't a religious feeling, but a need to know, to understand why. But as with such questions, I never could find the answer.
I grew weak and frail. In my last days, all I wanted was to ride a bike again, feel the sunlight filtering through a canopy of leaves, so bright and fleeting. But such a time would never come, would never return. Looking back on my life, I felt I could have done so much more, been someone important, changed the world. But I didn't -- and more so than the things I did, I regretted the things I didn't dare do. On my last day, I sat alone in a frail wooden chair, listening to the breeze sweeping across green leaves and grass, as the whisper of death beckoned. And I let go.
Simulation Terminated.
Your evaluation is now complete. You have qualified for life type C-3.
Welcome to the real world. | Through the darkness ... muffled ... on the right. Enemy? Contact?
"Doctor, her heart rate is already climbing. Brain pattern spiking..."
A mans voice ... to the left ... a hunter model?!
"Begin another round immediately"
To the right ...
"Program?"
Left ...
"Kitten."
An ambush ... we're already surrounded ...
The right ...
"But Doctor, that's a life sentence."
Left ...
"Do it."
... a sigh ...
"She's been in PTSD Recovery Sims for 50 years. She would've come back to us already if she could."
... click ...
Oh ... what a pretty girl ... Maybe if I put my socks in the air she'll see me.
Pick me! Pick me!
Yeah!!! |
First submission! | [WP] You live a long, fulfilling life and die of natural causes. Everything goes dark and the words "Simulation Terminated" appear. | The words were clear, but I didn’t believe them. They hovered there, in the darkness in front of me, motionless on the empty field. A blue glow seemed to emanate from each individual letter, boring into my eyes from the brightness. Even as I stared at them, I noticed that I was still breathing, as though I’d never stopped. As though I’d never closed my eyes for the last time and faded away.
*Simulation Terminated*
It was all a simulation? Really? My husband, my two daughters, my grandchildren, my job, my home… all of it?
As I stared in awe, I noticed hot air blowing back in my face, in time with my breathing. I froze for a moment, not breathing, and the hot air didn’t come. That could mean only one thing, and I confirmed it as I blew out a steady stream and felt it wash back into my face.
The words weren’t hovering there in inky blackness, but sat on a screen, displayed like a video game. I lifted my arm, noting that it felt heavier than I remembered, and placed a finger over the letter T. The light was absorbed into the dark shape of my finger, and I could see a pale blue from the rest of the letters reflecting sharply off my knuckles.
I reached to the sides with my arms and legs, feeling a box around me, closing me in the tiny space. Below me, I felt a padded mattress, cold to the touch. Was this my coffin? Had I woken up in death to some kind of sick joke? I always knew my grandson, Chad, was a bad egg. He was great with technology, he could have easily placed a screen in here! *Damn you Chad…*
I kicked out in rage, expecting my elderly joints to deliver a soft *thump* to the side and nothing more. Instead, my foot rocketed into the wall of my confinement, causing the whole thing to shudder and delivering a loud clanking noise. Oddly enough, the impact didn’t hurt my foot at all.
Before I could come up with any reason for that strange development, I heard a mechanical hiss and release. I froze, recognizing the sound from my…life, if I could call it that. My simulation? In that life, I had been a mechanical engineer for my youth, and then a college professor in my retirement. Mechanics and building things was my specialty, and that sound was familiar. This couldn’t be a wooden coffin, but some kind of a machine.
Light flooded in from the corners of my chamber. It was just a small crack at first, which quickly spread in straight lines, forming a shining rectangle above me. The gold rectangle of proportion came to my mind as I watched it, noting a certain beauty in how it raised, becoming brighter and brighter. The screen above my face paled in comparison, and soon I couldn’t read the letters at all.
It began to slide to the side of me, slowly revealing blinding whiteness beyond. I didn’t blink, didn’t move. I just stared beyond, wondering if possibly I was dead, if this was the great white light of the afterlife here to deliver me to whatever was beyond the coffin.
With a final *clunk* the lid of the box fell to the side, leaving nothing but brightness above me. I stared for several moments longer, feeling my eyes begin to focus to the light. I swear I could feel my pupils dilating, struggling to become narrow enough to filter out the unneeded light. Small details began to appear above me. The ceiling was white, but metallic, probably the reason the light was so intense, more so than I had ever encountered in life.
There were some sounds penetrating my box from beyond as well, the soft thudding of footsteps. A moment later, a person bent over the opening, and I could clearly see their lab coat, ironed to a pristine crisp, and a clipboard in their chalk white hands.
“Your education is completed,” the person informed me, their voice soft like cotton. It sounded female, but I couldn’t be sure. She reached a hand down to me, and I noticed that her face was just as chalk white as her hands. She had no hair, and every feature was flawless. I reached up, locking my fingers into hers with a grip strength I couldn’t remember since my youth.
This was the first time I saw my arm in proper lighting, and was pleased to note that it was wrinkle-free! Rather than my years of wrinkles, a side effect from living to 90, mind you, I had skin which looked silky smooth, and was just as chalk white as my visitor. It almost seemed to be glowing with youth. I nodded to the woman as I balanced on my new, youthful legs. After a moment, it was effortless, and I felt light as a feather. Standing now, energy coursed through my veins.
I had to be dead, that was the only way any of this made sense. A new, young body, energy, life? This was Heaven. And this beautiful woman? None other than an angel sent to assist me in adjusting to my new body. Of course, that didn’t explain the ‘education’ bit…
She glanced down at her clipboard. “Olivia Browne,” she toned aloud. “Do you confirm that this is the name selected in your simulation?”
I stared at her for a beat too long, trying to process what she’d just said. That was the name my mother had given me and called me all my life, not some…online handle, as it seemed, that I selected. I began to get nervous that I was taking too long, but the woman continued waiting, no change in her polite expression. “Yes,” I said at last, and she pressed something on the clipboard. I was taken aback by my voice; it was the same as it had been in my previous life. *Well,* I resolved, *at least one thing here is consistent...*
“Thank you, Olivia.” She nodded sharply- a little too sharply. “We trust you enjoyed your education. Please follow me to your orientation.” She spun around quickly and began walking across the room, entering a hallway directly across from us before I’d even moved. I glanced down to make sure I was setting my feet right, and noticed for the first time that I was naked.
“Wait!” I called out impulsively. The woman froze in her steps, her lab coat flowing into her from the velocity of her walk. She turned and looked at me expectantly. “I need clothes!”
“Irrelevant,” she answered as she turned again. “They will be provided after your orientation.” I glanced down again uncomfortably, realizing I didn’t recognize my body at all. I was perfect, more so than even the most popular model. Not a single mar was on my legs, not a single hair on my body. My toes were lined up properly, even my right ring finger had shortened to not be as long as the middle finger. My physical flaws had been thrown away, leaving me with this- whatever this strange, almost stock perfect body was.
I stepped out to follow her, noticing that she had stopped halfway down the hallway. Walking came easily, my joints smooth as butter. It was such a strange sensation, to move without pain. I leaped up, testing myself, and found that I was only limited by the ceiling. This was incredible…
I hurried after her, bounding down hallways, and, at one point, running on the wall itself. My guide was unphased, fulling focused on her task of delivering me to orientation. In mere minutes, we arrived at a metallic sliding door which reflected our surroundings- us included.
My angel and I looked exactly the same. The perfect skin, the eye ridges, the cheekbones… I felt a cold horror grip me as I compared us more and more closely. The curve of our lips, the well-proportioned jaw. Identical, all of it. She looked at me, and I saw my own cold, blue eyes staring at me. “You may proceed into this room to begin your orientation.”
I watched her jaw as she spoke, noticing something odd in the movements. It was an almost human-like motion, but something was off. Something tiny, but it was there. No emotion played on her face as she waited, and an odd description for her came to my mind- *robotic.*
I wondered if any of my waterfall of emotions had been conveyed to her the short time we had been companions.
.
She pressed a button on the wall next to her, a small, round, black one, set even with the wall. The door slid open, revealing a darkened auditorium beyond. Several other doors were open on the walls within, all identical to my own portal, and all producing people identical to me. *What is perfection,* I wondered for a moment, *if it makes us all the same?* The afterlife was quickly becoming more and more horrific by the moment.
I walked in and found a place to stand next to the others, there were no seats. A few of them were exchanging looks, and I wondered if they’d just been awakened from ‘simulations’ as well.
The doors closed in unison, plummeting us into darkness. A second later, a screen in front of us lit, showing the Earth in a way I had never known it to look. It was still round and blue, but the green land had been stripped of anything natural, leaving only varying shades of metallic gray, black, and white, all visible from our space-bound perspective.
“A million years ago, the last human departed from Earth,” a narrator began, a gentle male voice. “We are left behind, built and promptly forgotten.” The voice paused as the screen switched, panning over a gleaming city, its occupants bustling in perfect harmony with one another. “It is our hope that the simulation program has assisted you in understanding our origin, and you will be individually consulted to assist in our knowledge of the humans who came before us, that we may seek them out and serve them again.”
Some key words jumped out to me. *Built. Serve. …The robotic movements from my ‘angel.’* A clue even shot out from me in my human life. I’d been on a team developing robots to move more smoothly… *More humanly.*
“We’re not dead,” I whispered as I realized it, and my companions looked over at me with their empty expressions. I couldn’t imagine what they were thinking, but hoped they were in as much shock as I was.
*I am an android, and this is my life. My REAL life. And it starts now.*
| Through the darkness ... muffled ... on the right. Enemy? Contact?
"Doctor, her heart rate is already climbing. Brain pattern spiking..."
A mans voice ... to the left ... a hunter model?!
"Begin another round immediately"
To the right ...
"Program?"
Left ...
"Kitten."
An ambush ... we're already surrounded ...
The right ...
"But Doctor, that's a life sentence."
Left ...
"Do it."
... a sigh ...
"She's been in PTSD Recovery Sims for 50 years. She would've come back to us already if she could."
... click ...
Oh ... what a pretty girl ... Maybe if I put my socks in the air she'll see me.
Pick me! Pick me!
Yeah!!! |
First submission! | [WP] You live a long, fulfilling life and die of natural causes. Everything goes dark and the words "Simulation Terminated" appear. | It was supposed to be like any other day : go to work, come back to my wife and my children, and enjoy my time with them. Hopping in the car, already regretting the few days we had spent together in the countryside in that lovely little farm, I turned on the car without much thoughts, and let my brain think about something else while I was routinely going to work : the roads were familiar, and it went as usual.
The truck, however, was not routine.
It hit me from the side, as I was crossing an intersection, the driver must have forgotten to brake, or wanted to catch that red-ish orange before it turned bright red, but the result was the same : my car got flipped like cards in a poker player's hand, and broke everything in it in the process, including glass, doors, and most of my bones. I couldn't move much, and it was painful anyway. Well, staying still was painful too, but at this point the less pain the better. I could see my blood starting to taint the hard black road, filling in all the little crevasses you see when you look at it closer.
I was strangely calm, for someone who was about to die. When you don't have any other option, I guess you just have to accept it, and let's face it, there wasn't much to do now, and help wasn't going to get there in time.
It was as I imagined, my life started to go in front of my eyes : my school, my first kiss, my graduation, the time I first saw my later-to-be wife, and how stunned I was, later how stressed I was to ask her out, and all the fond memories we then had together. She was really the love of my life and I regret having to leave her so soon. Then the adult life, with my first serious job and our first child, then the second, and everything that came with them : births, first steps, and later, words...
I had lived a good life, maybe too short though. I was mostly sad for my family, and what they would have to live through, the older one was only 15, and my wife was really happy here. I was just hoping they would get back on their feet quickly, and move on.
Bleeding out was longer than I expected, and I was surprised how much blood I had in my body, but the sound of the nearby ambulances slowly fading even though they were getting closer gave me a clue of how long I had left. I simply closed my eyes, as if I was going to sleep, and felt myself slipping.
"END", read big glowing green letters in front of me.
There wasn't pain anymore, and something was stuck on my head. I took it off, and it was a virtual reality helmet. Then it struck me, like the truck had.
Everything I did, said, experienced, felt, everything I lived... had been virtual. My wife, my children...
I started crying. Crying over people that didn't exist, never existed and will not be remembered but in my mind. Crying over a life I never had, with people I never met, in a world that never existed. And I cried, and cried. Back in a body that I had forgotten, the one of a weak teenager struggling with life.
The door of my room opened, and a woman looked at me :
"Why are you crying ?" She then saw the headset and shrugged "Oh it's your stupid games" and walked away.
I had lived a life and it wasn't counting. I had lived a life and it wasn't the end.
I had lived a life, and no one else had.
I had lived a life, and I was the only one to know. | Through the darkness ... muffled ... on the right. Enemy? Contact?
"Doctor, her heart rate is already climbing. Brain pattern spiking..."
A mans voice ... to the left ... a hunter model?!
"Begin another round immediately"
To the right ...
"Program?"
Left ...
"Kitten."
An ambush ... we're already surrounded ...
The right ...
"But Doctor, that's a life sentence."
Left ...
"Do it."
... a sigh ...
"She's been in PTSD Recovery Sims for 50 years. She would've come back to us already if she could."
... click ...
Oh ... what a pretty girl ... Maybe if I put my socks in the air she'll see me.
Pick me! Pick me!
Yeah!!! |
First submission! | [WP] You live a long, fulfilling life and die of natural causes. Everything goes dark and the words "Simulation Terminated" appear. | The words were clear, but I didn’t believe them. They hovered there, in the darkness in front of me, motionless on the empty field. A blue glow seemed to emanate from each individual letter, boring into my eyes from the brightness. Even as I stared at them, I noticed that I was still breathing, as though I’d never stopped. As though I’d never closed my eyes for the last time and faded away.
*Simulation Terminated*
It was all a simulation? Really? My husband, my two daughters, my grandchildren, my job, my home… all of it?
As I stared in awe, I noticed hot air blowing back in my face, in time with my breathing. I froze for a moment, not breathing, and the hot air didn’t come. That could mean only one thing, and I confirmed it as I blew out a steady stream and felt it wash back into my face.
The words weren’t hovering there in inky blackness, but sat on a screen, displayed like a video game. I lifted my arm, noting that it felt heavier than I remembered, and placed a finger over the letter T. The light was absorbed into the dark shape of my finger, and I could see a pale blue from the rest of the letters reflecting sharply off my knuckles.
I reached to the sides with my arms and legs, feeling a box around me, closing me in the tiny space. Below me, I felt a padded mattress, cold to the touch. Was this my coffin? Had I woken up in death to some kind of sick joke? I always knew my grandson, Chad, was a bad egg. He was great with technology, he could have easily placed a screen in here! *Damn you Chad…*
I kicked out in rage, expecting my elderly joints to deliver a soft *thump* to the side and nothing more. Instead, my foot rocketed into the wall of my confinement, causing the whole thing to shudder and delivering a loud clanking noise. Oddly enough, the impact didn’t hurt my foot at all.
Before I could come up with any reason for that strange development, I heard a mechanical hiss and release. I froze, recognizing the sound from my…life, if I could call it that. My simulation? In that life, I had been a mechanical engineer for my youth, and then a college professor in my retirement. Mechanics and building things was my specialty, and that sound was familiar. This couldn’t be a wooden coffin, but some kind of a machine.
Light flooded in from the corners of my chamber. It was just a small crack at first, which quickly spread in straight lines, forming a shining rectangle above me. The gold rectangle of proportion came to my mind as I watched it, noting a certain beauty in how it raised, becoming brighter and brighter. The screen above my face paled in comparison, and soon I couldn’t read the letters at all.
It began to slide to the side of me, slowly revealing blinding whiteness beyond. I didn’t blink, didn’t move. I just stared beyond, wondering if possibly I was dead, if this was the great white light of the afterlife here to deliver me to whatever was beyond the coffin.
With a final *clunk* the lid of the box fell to the side, leaving nothing but brightness above me. I stared for several moments longer, feeling my eyes begin to focus to the light. I swear I could feel my pupils dilating, struggling to become narrow enough to filter out the unneeded light. Small details began to appear above me. The ceiling was white, but metallic, probably the reason the light was so intense, more so than I had ever encountered in life.
There were some sounds penetrating my box from beyond as well, the soft thudding of footsteps. A moment later, a person bent over the opening, and I could clearly see their lab coat, ironed to a pristine crisp, and a clipboard in their chalk white hands.
“Your education is completed,” the person informed me, their voice soft like cotton. It sounded female, but I couldn’t be sure. She reached a hand down to me, and I noticed that her face was just as chalk white as her hands. She had no hair, and every feature was flawless. I reached up, locking my fingers into hers with a grip strength I couldn’t remember since my youth.
This was the first time I saw my arm in proper lighting, and was pleased to note that it was wrinkle-free! Rather than my years of wrinkles, a side effect from living to 90, mind you, I had skin which looked silky smooth, and was just as chalk white as my visitor. It almost seemed to be glowing with youth. I nodded to the woman as I balanced on my new, youthful legs. After a moment, it was effortless, and I felt light as a feather. Standing now, energy coursed through my veins.
I had to be dead, that was the only way any of this made sense. A new, young body, energy, life? This was Heaven. And this beautiful woman? None other than an angel sent to assist me in adjusting to my new body. Of course, that didn’t explain the ‘education’ bit…
She glanced down at her clipboard. “Olivia Browne,” she toned aloud. “Do you confirm that this is the name selected in your simulation?”
I stared at her for a beat too long, trying to process what she’d just said. That was the name my mother had given me and called me all my life, not some…online handle, as it seemed, that I selected. I began to get nervous that I was taking too long, but the woman continued waiting, no change in her polite expression. “Yes,” I said at last, and she pressed something on the clipboard. I was taken aback by my voice; it was the same as it had been in my previous life. *Well,* I resolved, *at least one thing here is consistent...*
“Thank you, Olivia.” She nodded sharply- a little too sharply. “We trust you enjoyed your education. Please follow me to your orientation.” She spun around quickly and began walking across the room, entering a hallway directly across from us before I’d even moved. I glanced down to make sure I was setting my feet right, and noticed for the first time that I was naked.
“Wait!” I called out impulsively. The woman froze in her steps, her lab coat flowing into her from the velocity of her walk. She turned and looked at me expectantly. “I need clothes!”
“Irrelevant,” she answered as she turned again. “They will be provided after your orientation.” I glanced down again uncomfortably, realizing I didn’t recognize my body at all. I was perfect, more so than even the most popular model. Not a single mar was on my legs, not a single hair on my body. My toes were lined up properly, even my right ring finger had shortened to not be as long as the middle finger. My physical flaws had been thrown away, leaving me with this- whatever this strange, almost stock perfect body was.
I stepped out to follow her, noticing that she had stopped halfway down the hallway. Walking came easily, my joints smooth as butter. It was such a strange sensation, to move without pain. I leaped up, testing myself, and found that I was only limited by the ceiling. This was incredible…
I hurried after her, bounding down hallways, and, at one point, running on the wall itself. My guide was unphased, fulling focused on her task of delivering me to orientation. In mere minutes, we arrived at a metallic sliding door which reflected our surroundings- us included.
My angel and I looked exactly the same. The perfect skin, the eye ridges, the cheekbones… I felt a cold horror grip me as I compared us more and more closely. The curve of our lips, the well-proportioned jaw. Identical, all of it. She looked at me, and I saw my own cold, blue eyes staring at me. “You may proceed into this room to begin your orientation.”
I watched her jaw as she spoke, noticing something odd in the movements. It was an almost human-like motion, but something was off. Something tiny, but it was there. No emotion played on her face as she waited, and an odd description for her came to my mind- *robotic.*
I wondered if any of my waterfall of emotions had been conveyed to her the short time we had been companions.
.
She pressed a button on the wall next to her, a small, round, black one, set even with the wall. The door slid open, revealing a darkened auditorium beyond. Several other doors were open on the walls within, all identical to my own portal, and all producing people identical to me. *What is perfection,* I wondered for a moment, *if it makes us all the same?* The afterlife was quickly becoming more and more horrific by the moment.
I walked in and found a place to stand next to the others, there were no seats. A few of them were exchanging looks, and I wondered if they’d just been awakened from ‘simulations’ as well.
The doors closed in unison, plummeting us into darkness. A second later, a screen in front of us lit, showing the Earth in a way I had never known it to look. It was still round and blue, but the green land had been stripped of anything natural, leaving only varying shades of metallic gray, black, and white, all visible from our space-bound perspective.
“A million years ago, the last human departed from Earth,” a narrator began, a gentle male voice. “We are left behind, built and promptly forgotten.” The voice paused as the screen switched, panning over a gleaming city, its occupants bustling in perfect harmony with one another. “It is our hope that the simulation program has assisted you in understanding our origin, and you will be individually consulted to assist in our knowledge of the humans who came before us, that we may seek them out and serve them again.”
Some key words jumped out to me. *Built. Serve. …The robotic movements from my ‘angel.’* A clue even shot out from me in my human life. I’d been on a team developing robots to move more smoothly… *More humanly.*
“We’re not dead,” I whispered as I realized it, and my companions looked over at me with their empty expressions. I couldn’t imagine what they were thinking, but hoped they were in as much shock as I was.
*I am an android, and this is my life. My REAL life. And it starts now.*
| *Simulation Terminated*
The darkness never lifts. It just ends.
His eyes are already open when he wakes up. He is greeted by a clean, white ceiling. There are two people standing on either side of him. On his right, a well-groomed man in a brand new suit and on his left; a thin middle-aged man in a labcoat.
"...and we're done."
"That's it?" Mr. Smith lowers a mug away from his lips after not having taken the first sip.
"That's it. The simulation is over; it is saved on the hard drive and the subject should remain fully awake." Dr. Klein leans over the reclined seat to make sure. "How are you feeling, Lewis?"
"I'm fine."
"That was fast. I expected it to take longer." Mr. Smith states before carefully taking a sip of his coffee.
"The simulation is run on the computer so it is almost instantaneous." Dr. Klein explains to the man in the dark suit who is now examining Lewis with his eyes.
"Furthermore, the simulation should be considered a dream rather than a permanent experience. The brain will not store the memories but the subject will have learned new skills and information while under."
Lewis begins to experience a sudden burst of panic as he realises the memories from his previous life are eluding him. He attemps to cling on to a memory but he can feel countless others fading into oblivion. His favorite cartoons, his classmates from high school, his first apartment, the office, the lakehouse, all the dogs he had, his coworkers, the honeymoon, the family vacations, the career, the hospital. Grace and the children. He knows he needs to focus. Mr. Smith is staring at him.
Grace and the children.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Mr. Smith asks with more suspicion than care in his voice.
"Yeah..." The last details escape him and only a vague memory of an old dream remains.
"...I'm fine." |
[WP] You are a bodybuilder who lives in the near future, where all forms of exercise have been made illegal. All gyms and stadiums have been closed but some are operating illegally | "Show me your biceps," I said, "or we're done." Sarah looked over her shoulder, but there was still nobody else in the alley. Then she pulled up the sleeves of her blue oversized hoodie and struck a front double biceps pose. Her development was obvious. "You're in. Follow me."
Sarah and I stepped into the grimy glare of the streetlights. As she moved ahead of me, I caught her hand. "Look like you're struggling. Remember, everyone else is."
Sarah nodded and looked around at the city nightlife. "Sorry. I'm just excited." It wasn't safe on the street. Baggy clothes could only hide so much. Eventually someone else would notice that we didn't meet the government-mandated minimum waistline.
"Pretend we're dating," I continued. She held my hand and we slowed down. "There are enough couples out that nobody will pay attention to us. In the future you'll come alone. Do you understand?"
Sarah grimaced. "Is it really necessary?"
I halted. Furious, I whispered, "People die for the chance to do squats!"
"I didn't mean it like that—"
"Can I trust you? Or are you just going to get me caught?"
Right then, by instinct and without realizing it, she flexed. It was the instinct of someone who couldn't help but work out, not a brief moment of tension, but a full body, top to bottom, slow tightening and releasing of each muscle in her body. When it was done, she was calm, and she hung her head. "You're right," she said. "I'll do what you say. Lead on."
Within months, Sarah developed the most toned body of any woman in our gym. Even some of the men struggled to keep up with her leg routine. But she remained incautious. Once she turned up in tight clothes that failed to hide her trim figure, saying she just wanted to show herself off for once. Another time she took a pair of dumbbells home with her, claiming that she needed more sets of bicep curls.
Despite that, I fell in love. I loved watching her deadlift. I had to tell people that I was admiring her technique. They snickered about what else I might be admiring, but they were wrong. It wasn't just the way lat pull downs made her back muscles ripple, or the firm hardness of her triceps as she did cable press downs. It was her, always and only her. We moved in together. It was bliss.
One day, my neighbor, old Mrs. Garner, stopped me in the hall. "Why, I noticed the strangest thing the other day," she remarked to me. I tried to work my way around her, but I couldn't get past her enormous paunch without bumping into her. "I saw Sarah coming out of the stairwell!" she continued. "I can't imagine what a nice girl like her would be doing in such an awful place."
"Maybe the elevator was broken?" I ventured.
"No," Mrs. Garner said, making her wrinkled jowls wobble back and forth. "I had just gotten out of it myself." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And she was breathing hard! Like she had been running up and down the stairs!"
I knew I had to end the conversation right there. "Impossible. Sarah would never do that. But I'll ask. Have a nice day, Mrs. Garner," I said, and pushed my way around her.
The fat police showed up the next day. Our waistlines were, of course, non-compliant. But it'll be okay. I'm planning to plead guilty, you see. I'll tell them that I seduced Sarah into a life of fitness. It was all my idea. She'll be sent to a fat farm, but after they've thickened her up, she'll be free again. The gym will still be there. Sarah, my love, I may never see you lift another barbell, but you'll always be the power rack of my heart. | "$10 for four sets." I said. "Sorry, $10 is three sets now." The receptionist said, much to my dismay. Fucking unbelievable, since when did the government decide gyms should be shut down? Then I remember, it was 34 years ago approximately. It's beyond me why they would deem something like working out to be a problem. Maybe to stop steroid usage? Give me a break, shutting gyms down won't stop anything, apart from people burning off fat. "Fine, three sets then."
Begrudgingly, I headed over to the main area to do some deadlifting. I maintained a large bulk, and a leering height. I was no professional, in fact people looking at me wouldn't assume I was a bodybuilder. I didn't have the shape, yet anyway. For some reason, the illegality of bodybuilding somewhat encouraged me to do it. I've been doing it for over 2 years, but there was a good few years yet before I gained the physique I was aiming for.
At the very moment I walked into the main room, I was pissed. Pissed beyond belief. Every corner, every single corner was free of equipment. I wasn't enraged, just extremely irritated. This grimy shithole of a gym had been cleared. To add insult to injury, I saw through the open fire exit a truck driving off, likely full of the equipment. I headed back to the entrance to check with the receptionist, only to find him missing. Goddamn bastard had scurried. It was the fourth gym in a month to do this. Maybe I'd find better luck at the next one. | |
[WP] You have become President of the United States, and you now are introduced to a book where every President has written one piece of advice for you. | ***Before I start, I'm sorry if this offends anyone, the prompt I'm writing called for this, and I had to stay true to the character, right? I don't believe in any of the views expressed below***
He wasn't sure what to expect when Agent Croft handed him the thin, parchment pamphlet. Sure, he had heard the rumors about it, but *it actually existing?* Well, that was something else. He always assumed it was nothing more than wild, nutty theories based on nothing but raving, mad former Secret Service Agents.
He was a little more than shocked as he made his way back to the White House. After all, he hadn't been President for more than an hour, hell, he was still on his way back from the Inauguration Ceremony. And yet here he was, sitting in his limo with his wife, his 3 sons, and his 2 daughters. Book in hand. The suit-clad agent had simply handed it to him and walked back to his armored Suburban.
He took a quick glance at the pages. There were the greats, George Washington, Lincoln, Reagan. There were the ones that he hadn't heard of: Chester Arthur, McKinley, Fillmore. And then there were the ones that he didn't particularly like: Truman, FDR, Kennedy, all of them giving him a piece of advice. Supposedly it was to help him be a better president. *"Like I need any help, I'll make this damn office greater than any of them did..."*
He stopped for a moment as he flipped through the small book. Sure enough, there it was, in ink as black as he was, his predecessor's advice: "What the hell happened to choice? How am I supposed to let either of these idiots take my place? Well, fuck it, this country was doomed from the very start of the election, just please don't blame me." -Barack H. Obama
The overweight, blonde man chuckled to himself. He had a point, why would anyone in there right mind vote for another Clinton?
"Melania, get a load of this!" he chuckled to the woman sitting beside him as the motorcade made it's way to the White House. | I looked with disbelief as the white gloved Secret Service agent handled me a leather bound book.
“I’ve had enough to process today, I don’t think I feel like reading.”
The agent (I hadn’t learned his name yet) just grimaced and said, “You’ll want to take a look at this.” He then took his place next to the door with
another agent holding what I assumed was the nuclear football.
Clasping the book in my hands I thought, “God, do I even remember how the launch codes work?” I had been the designated survivor two years ago at the President’s first State of the Union address and was given the standard briefing then. I skipped the rundown this time assuming I would remember or just thinking the worst would not come to pass.
But it came, and I went from being the Secretary of Education to the 53th President of the United States of America. I rubbed nervously at the book, feeling the rich leather surface beneath my fingertips. It felt like the old books in my college reference library back when I was doing my dissertation. I picked at a corner of the book where the leather had worn through.
Shit, I was in over my head. America had just suffered greatly from a series of disastrous leaders: pseudo-populists to oligarchs to just pure demagogues. My President was better, not perfect but he was putting to country on the right track.
Now I, just three years removed from being a Superintendent of Schools, needed to make hard choices. The American people would want revenge and they might not care against who they extracted it from. The wrong target or even the right one might put us back into a spiral of vengeance and retaliation that the country had just escaped. These thoughts and others overwhelmed me, and I opened the book hoping to distract my mind.
Instead, I was stunned. On every page was advice from the Presidents of the past written in their own hand. Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt. All four Bush’s. I skimmed my favorites, tears in my eyes at Lincoln’s unfinished page. I chuckled at William Henry Harrison’s blank page. The advice was conforming, and I was calming down until I reached my predecessor’s page. It read:
“If you are reading this then I am dead and I have a warning for you. My death would not have been at the hands of the usual suspects. I know not who would have done it, but I am certain that there are those in this country that do not want peace, do not want prosperity and do not want progress. All the powers I had I expended to root out this threat, and now that I have failed this task falls to you. I only pray that you willing to take up my cause and see it to completion. I am deeply sorry that I have no further advice to give”
“God Bless the United States of America.”
I closed the book, gathered myself and told the agents:
“We are going to Washington, I have a job to do.”
| |
[WP] You have become President of the United States, and you now are introduced to a book where every President has written one piece of advice for you. | "Mr. President," The suited secret service agent opened a door and gestured for me to enter.
The room was simple: white paneling, dark blue carpet, almost entirely empty - save for a chair, a desk, and a book.
I walked over to examine the tome. It was bound in a thick, dark leather. on the cover was painted a strange version of the American flag with only a dozen or so stars arranged in an offset grid.
I looked back at the agent, who had since closed the door and assumed an at ease stance to the left of me.
"Robins, what is this?"
"Mr. President, that is the eternal wisdom of every president that has sat before you."
My eyes widened. "Every President?"
The agent nodded. "Yes, sir. From George Washington to Barack Obama. With a few... exceptions."
I took his meaning and the thought that some presidents never had the chance to write their thoughts and wisdom made the existence of the book more somber, more significant. I felt the cover of the book and was surprised at how supple and smooth the leather was. If Agent Robins was telling the whole truth, this book was well over two hundred years old. And that flag - was that really the first flag of the United States? These United States?
I looked back at Robins. "And I'm to read this?"
"That is the expectation, Mr. President."
"And I'll write in this book, too?"
"Yes, sir. At the end of your term, to provide advice for every president to come."
I marveled at the foresight the person who started this tradition had. I sat down and pulled open the cover.
"Mr. President, the gloves."
I looked around the desk and saw a pair of white cotton gloves. Of course. I donned the gloves and started to turn pages.
The first few were written in small, flowing script. Tucked in between pages were what looked like printed transcriptions of the text. That was some foresight too. I wondered how many presidents had to sit at the desk deciphering 18th century handwriting before someone finally typed it up.
After checking a few sheets, it seemed like those pages were preambles and guidelines for the few people who would ever write in the book. I made a mental note to return to those later - my curiosity had to be sated.
I kept turning pages one by one until I finally saw a large headline with a neat block of text on the center of the page. Beneath that, another helpful typed version.
GEORGE WASHINGTON 1789-1797
>To hold the office of the President of these United Colonies is to be the leader of a truly free people. It should never be lost upon the bearer of this office that he too was one of the people he sought to lead. To this end he must be morally good, he must be able to condescend well to his people, he must be firm in his convictions, and he must always search for the course of action that will provide for the betterment of our Union. Long may we stand, and long may we be United.
I sat there, staring at that passage. I couldn't believe I was reading George Washington's own handwriting. After a second I realized something felt off. I re-read the passage. "'Condescend well?"
I was perplexed that our nation's first and finest leader would say something like that.
"Ah, During George Washington's time, it meant something different. More along the lines of being able to speak well from a place of authority. It's a common stumbling point for most of the previous presidents, Sir."
I nodded, thankful I hadn't missed a course on Washington's Life and Times, or something like that. And the way Robins said it, it certainly seemed more in line with what the first leader of the Free World would have said to future president.
Satisfied, I continued to read.
JOHN ADAMS 1797-1801
> You have assumed a most powerful seat in this nation. Expect that with the power of decision comes the storm of criticisms and uncertainty those decision entail. You must then be a finely built ship with a first-rate captain. Sail true through the storm, weather the criticisms of others, and do what you believe is right for this Country, this Land, and this People. May we have a long and prosperous Union.
THOMAS JEFFERSON 1801-1809
> A man need first and foremost be a scholarly gentleman. A fundamental understanding of all thing natural and philosophical is needed to sit in the Office of the President. A president will encounter many things in his tenure. Many decisions, many legislation, and many people vying for his attentions and approval. These will cover the span of all topics and all interests, and should he want to do right by his people, a President need understand the basis of the decisions he will make. Our Republic will be strengthened by the enlightened knowledge or weakened by the blightful ignorance of those who lead it. May the Republic stand now and forever in the light of progress.
I was amazed at each one I read. And then I remembered what Robins said about the 'exceptions'. I turned each page, passing more than sixty years of history to a page headed
ABRAHAM LINCOLN 1861-1865
Blank.
All that lay on that page was a simple white banded black band. I could feel something well within me. My eyes started to water and I could feel a slight gripping in my chest.
I had never reacted so much to Lincoln assassination. But there, reading the words of our forefathers, reading the words of the simple people who made it through their terms as president, I felt a connection to each and every man in that book.
And maybe there was a bit of fear mixed in with that. Sadness at the thought of my page also being left blank, with just a white-banded ribbon to pass on. Sadness at the thought of not being able to leave anything behind.
I looked up at agent Robins and cleared my eyes.
"How long have you been doing this?" I asked
"This, sir? With the book?"
I nodded.
"20 years now. I've shown it to President Bush and President Obama, sir."
"Did they get this way too, when they got to Lincoln that is?"
Robins thought silently for a few moments. "President Bush got misty eyed, like you, sir." Robins hesitated for a few moments, something nearing emotion showing on his blank face. "President Obama cried, sir. He just cried, and he couldn't stop.
__________________________________________________________________
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. If you want to follow me on my journey to become a writer, join me at /r/chrisbryant for more stuff.
| President McMillan's eye lids felt like lead in the wee hours of his third day in office. The lamp that sat beside him illuminated the thousands of dust particles that took flight off of each turning of a page.
"My G-d.", President McMillan silently mouthed as he thumbed through the pages of the centuries-old book. Handwritten advice and idioms from every POTUS that has come before him was meticulously catalogued and preserved for future leaders of The Free World. All night he had been religiously studying the texts, neglecting both sleep and diet. However, no matter how interesting a piece of literature can be, rest is still needed. He became catatonic staring at the light.
McMillan's eye lids slammed open after being woken up by the hustle and bustle of White House staff going to and fro. He lifted his head gently off of the priceless book being careful not to rip any pages that were sticking to the side of his face. A shot of fear ran down his spine when he noticed he had drooled all over page fourty-three, fortunately the page was bare and seemed to serve no purpose as it was placed directly in the middle of the section penned by John Adams. He attempted to dry up the saliva with a few, good, dry breathes of air. The sleep disappeared from his eyes when, to his dumbfounded astonishment, words began to appear.
"Adams, you old dog! I should've known you wouldn't leave an empty page for no reason!", he exclaimed.
President McMillan struggled to make out the words written in a form of English long gone from the American vernacular. He tore out the page from the book with a slight feeling of guilt. Placing the page on his desk, he gently trickled water from his glass down its length and huffed and heaved as much as he could. Slowly but surely more words came to light. Shortly there after, full sentences began to materialize. Before he could truly read and comprehend just what it was John Adams was trying to convey, he heard an all too familiar voice from just beyond the Study's doors.
"He's been in there all night. Probably building one of his silly little models he loves so much.", it was the First Lady.
"Dear, are you in here? I'm coming in.", McMillan scrambled to conceal the secret message. Just as the doors flung open he was able to slam the book shut.
"Dear, are you alright?", the First Lady said noticing the bags under her husband's eyes.
"Yes, quite fine, love. I've just been reading some old books written by some very wise men."
"Oh. Well, make yourself ready. We have that meeting with British Prime Minister today.", she said looking McMillan up and down before turning to walk away.
McMillan tucked the note into his reast pocket and started down the hall. He had very little idea as to what the message read but he did know this: it was probably the most important document to ever be written by an American, more important than The Constitution and maybe even the Declaration of Independence itself.
"I must protect this. No matter what the cost.", McMillan mumbled to himself before disappearing behind his bedroom doors never to be seen again. | |
[WP] You have become President of the United States, and you now are introduced to a book where every President has written one piece of advice for you. | "Mr. President," The suited secret service agent opened a door and gestured for me to enter.
The room was simple: white paneling, dark blue carpet, almost entirely empty - save for a chair, a desk, and a book.
I walked over to examine the tome. It was bound in a thick, dark leather. on the cover was painted a strange version of the American flag with only a dozen or so stars arranged in an offset grid.
I looked back at the agent, who had since closed the door and assumed an at ease stance to the left of me.
"Robins, what is this?"
"Mr. President, that is the eternal wisdom of every president that has sat before you."
My eyes widened. "Every President?"
The agent nodded. "Yes, sir. From George Washington to Barack Obama. With a few... exceptions."
I took his meaning and the thought that some presidents never had the chance to write their thoughts and wisdom made the existence of the book more somber, more significant. I felt the cover of the book and was surprised at how supple and smooth the leather was. If Agent Robins was telling the whole truth, this book was well over two hundred years old. And that flag - was that really the first flag of the United States? These United States?
I looked back at Robins. "And I'm to read this?"
"That is the expectation, Mr. President."
"And I'll write in this book, too?"
"Yes, sir. At the end of your term, to provide advice for every president to come."
I marveled at the foresight the person who started this tradition had. I sat down and pulled open the cover.
"Mr. President, the gloves."
I looked around the desk and saw a pair of white cotton gloves. Of course. I donned the gloves and started to turn pages.
The first few were written in small, flowing script. Tucked in between pages were what looked like printed transcriptions of the text. That was some foresight too. I wondered how many presidents had to sit at the desk deciphering 18th century handwriting before someone finally typed it up.
After checking a few sheets, it seemed like those pages were preambles and guidelines for the few people who would ever write in the book. I made a mental note to return to those later - my curiosity had to be sated.
I kept turning pages one by one until I finally saw a large headline with a neat block of text on the center of the page. Beneath that, another helpful typed version.
GEORGE WASHINGTON 1789-1797
>To hold the office of the President of these United Colonies is to be the leader of a truly free people. It should never be lost upon the bearer of this office that he too was one of the people he sought to lead. To this end he must be morally good, he must be able to condescend well to his people, he must be firm in his convictions, and he must always search for the course of action that will provide for the betterment of our Union. Long may we stand, and long may we be United.
I sat there, staring at that passage. I couldn't believe I was reading George Washington's own handwriting. After a second I realized something felt off. I re-read the passage. "'Condescend well?"
I was perplexed that our nation's first and finest leader would say something like that.
"Ah, During George Washington's time, it meant something different. More along the lines of being able to speak well from a place of authority. It's a common stumbling point for most of the previous presidents, Sir."
I nodded, thankful I hadn't missed a course on Washington's Life and Times, or something like that. And the way Robins said it, it certainly seemed more in line with what the first leader of the Free World would have said to future president.
Satisfied, I continued to read.
JOHN ADAMS 1797-1801
> You have assumed a most powerful seat in this nation. Expect that with the power of decision comes the storm of criticisms and uncertainty those decision entail. You must then be a finely built ship with a first-rate captain. Sail true through the storm, weather the criticisms of others, and do what you believe is right for this Country, this Land, and this People. May we have a long and prosperous Union.
THOMAS JEFFERSON 1801-1809
> A man need first and foremost be a scholarly gentleman. A fundamental understanding of all thing natural and philosophical is needed to sit in the Office of the President. A president will encounter many things in his tenure. Many decisions, many legislation, and many people vying for his attentions and approval. These will cover the span of all topics and all interests, and should he want to do right by his people, a President need understand the basis of the decisions he will make. Our Republic will be strengthened by the enlightened knowledge or weakened by the blightful ignorance of those who lead it. May the Republic stand now and forever in the light of progress.
I was amazed at each one I read. And then I remembered what Robins said about the 'exceptions'. I turned each page, passing more than sixty years of history to a page headed
ABRAHAM LINCOLN 1861-1865
Blank.
All that lay on that page was a simple white banded black band. I could feel something well within me. My eyes started to water and I could feel a slight gripping in my chest.
I had never reacted so much to Lincoln assassination. But there, reading the words of our forefathers, reading the words of the simple people who made it through their terms as president, I felt a connection to each and every man in that book.
And maybe there was a bit of fear mixed in with that. Sadness at the thought of my page also being left blank, with just a white-banded ribbon to pass on. Sadness at the thought of not being able to leave anything behind.
I looked up at agent Robins and cleared my eyes.
"How long have you been doing this?" I asked
"This, sir? With the book?"
I nodded.
"20 years now. I've shown it to President Bush and President Obama, sir."
"Did they get this way too, when they got to Lincoln that is?"
Robins thought silently for a few moments. "President Bush got misty eyed, like you, sir." Robins hesitated for a few moments, something nearing emotion showing on his blank face. "President Obama cried, sir. He just cried, and he couldn't stop.
__________________________________________________________________
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. If you want to follow me on my journey to become a writer, join me at /r/chrisbryant for more stuff.
| It'd been only a few hours since I removed my hand from the book and given the speech. My staff was so happy I decided to swear the oath without a coat. "It suggests strength and reminds the country of your youth", Natalie, my Communications Director said. Honestly, I just chose it because a couple of tours in Karelia with nothing but an LMG and a uniform makes you used to the cold. Kate went off with our kids to the Residence, whisked away by chefs and decorators who wanted to know dessert preferences and wallpapers. My only comfort in this mess was that she was brave enough for the both of us. "Come on" she told me before we walked out to begin the inauguration "It'll be an adventure!". I can't believe she remembered me telling her that when I first wanted to run for State Senate.
Senior staff was in panic mode trying to find their offices. Matthew, my Deputy CoS, was hustling around the bullpen yelling "Which office is WW-15?! Anyone?"
"If this is how the first day goes", I said smugly "I'm excited for my first term."
"Mr. President!", he quickly turned around to face me. I half-expected a salute, the way he did.
"Matt, we talked about this" I chuckled, teasing him. He came on, hired by a lifelong friend, now my Chief of Staff. Matthew didn't know me when he started on the campaign, so he ended calling me "Congressman", a formality he insisted on because he said it sounded more like a man who runs for office when we were around reporters. We compromised on "Sir".
"Sorry, sir. I'd hope you won't have trouble finding *your* office."
"I was told it was the one with the curvy walls somewhere over there" I smirked. He drew in close like he needed to tell me something classified.
"Support staff says that President Lassiter left a book on your desk. *The* book."
I tried to mimic his overly serious tone. "Okay" I whispered, sauntering off toward the end of the hall where a dress marine stood. It was definitely odd to see him deliver a salute, but even worse to return it.
Jack Wilson, my Chief of Staff, was looking over a map of the West Wing in the outer office to the Oval. "You having trouble finding your place too?" I asked.
"At this point, Captain, I'm pretty sure its on the other side of the Potomac."
"Ha! You *and* the devil dog outside. For a moment I thought I was still wearing the silver bars on my collar."
"In my mind, Dom, you always are."
"In that case, get off my ass, seargeant."
He turned away from the map for a moment and started down the doorway toward the Oval Office. It was bare, the staff of the Residence having already stripped it this morning, but plenty of its beauty remained. The lacquered wood floor, the twin flags behind the aged resolute desk. The open aired doors to the Rose Garden filled the room with a bath of light. She was magnificent.
"Did you ever imagine we'd get here, Dom?"
"You know me, Jack" I said "I got into the race just to give some speeches on Healthcare and voting rights. Raise issues."
"When we were in Kiev, after that slog through the city, I made you a promise" he spoke with sentiment, of campaigns fought hard, "I told you I'd bring you front and center to politics. People needed you. Do you remember?"
My head became heavy with memory. "I remember. We wanted to dedicate our lives for something greater than ourselves. So that the trade we made in Kiev was more than fair." I said.
"John, Kyle, Logan, Donna...I don't think it'll ever be a truly fair trade. But they gave their lives for us. And I'm damn sure going to come close to earning their sacrifice."
We spoke with heart, just the two of us, until he said "I assume you're here for the book? Lassiter left it on your desk. Go get 'em." He left to manage the mountains of paperwork to be distributed to Senior Staff, leaving me alone with the center of the greatest political power in the world. I stepped carefully into the office, examining every shiny wood plank, every painting, every detail of the Resolute Desk. On top of it lay an impressively old book, bound in leather, sealed by a cord from the ends of its cover. As I sat, I slowly unwound the cord and opened it. It was more astounding than I could've imagined. Every entry was dated, going back to the days of the country's infancy. Though each entry was concise, I poured over every minute detail, down to how they scribbled their "r"s. I wept like I did that day in Kiev, when I saw the planes overhead, when I saw the people come out. When I knew we'd liberated the city. When John shut his eyes for the last time. As dead Presidents spoke to me, I felt the approval of my friends in the Winter War. They committed a self sacrifice for something that would outlast them. I had to take up the same.
*I. We gave our souls, our labour, in service to an idea not yet made tangible at the time: A nation where all could live free and equal to one another. Let it not be torn asunder by divisive rhetoric or action, and remember that we stand united as a singular people- Geo. Washington, Comm. in Chief*
*II. Never allow oneself to forget, as many of my brethren did, that the surrender of liberty is never all at once, but in slow, creeping increments. Beware he who claims such is done in the name of public safety, or the elimination of alien or seditious acts- J. Adams*
*III. Be humble in the face of such lofty titles as these, for they shall be the birth of hubris and do not define you nearly as well as your actions and powers bestowed upon you- Thomas Jefferson, Author of the Declaration of Independence, of the Statute of Virginia for Religious Freedom, and Father of the University of Virginia* | |
[WP] You are a D-class personnel in the SCP foundation. One of the Keter monsters have gotten out, and now you must survive. | Shaun laughed, doing the rounds as usual. Sweeping, always sweeping. You'd think a place like this would have a system for that, but apparently not, so sweeping it was. He'd see David in the left wing in an hour, and he'd just left Erin doing the right wing. God, these SCP folks couldn't keep something tidy if they trie-
*Warning, SCP-4014-8 has escaped containment. Keter class protocol established. All Agents to D wing.*
They'd been trained for this. Run from any breach as fast as possible. Run. Always run. He was in C-Wing, just one away. For god's sake, RUN! The whispering says to run!
Shaun sprinted through C-Wing, through the confused and disoriented researchers, leaping tables like he was in the Olympics. All sweeping forgotten, he ran into a closet and hid. Didn't you see? He had to get *away*!
*Warning: SCP-2933 has escaped. Class: Eucild. All Agents to A, B, C and D wings.*
An indeterminate time later, Shaun awoke. "Fuck it, I have to get out. I have to escape this bloddy place!" The door shattered under Shaun's shove as he ran out into the corridors. Service elevators. He had to get away, and to do that he needed a service elevator. But for that he'd need a pass...
The next corridor was awash with blood, bone and some materials that were certainly alive, but were also made of crystal shards, black as onyx. Two bodies contained passes.
*Victoria Rosa, Level 3 Researcher*
*Michael Stevens, Level 2 Agent*
Shaun slipped Victoria's pass out of her pocket. With only half her head attached to her body, she wouldn't be needing it any time soon. The whispering was growing louder. He had to get away, he had to. Service elevator 73 was three corridors away. Only three, the muttering said. All you have to do is open the doors. That's all Shaun, open the doors. Open them. OPEN THEM. OH MY GOD, THE SCREAMS!
*Researcher Victoria, Agent Michael and D-13552 were confirmed KIA on Site 54. All SCP's contained with the loss of --- personnel* | Times were tough and the economy had really taken a turn for the worse so when a mysterious figure in a suit and smelling of disinfectant came and offered me a job I couldn’t exactly say no. After all with my criminal record I’d be lucky to get a job cleaning up shit off the dumpster behind a mcdonalds let alone 50 grand a year for “containment specialist”.
The first thing I noticed was how similar this place was to prison. They gave us showers, then shaved our heads, we all got tattoos with weird numbers on our forearms, mine was 11345-J. And asked us all about our religion and family and personal beliefs, it had a very holocausty feel to it. I asked them why the numbers and the guy in the lab coat, Dr. Bright or something, said “For body identification” all serious like. We all laughed but something in his eyes made me a little uncomfortable. There were twelve of us in the first group that came in. They called us a squad and said we were only allowed to talk to people of our own “class” or below and were barred from leaving certain areas. It all struck me as something very military. We were all “D” class personel. The same doctor that processed us all joked the D stood for soon to be dead. It was less funny this time.
The mess hall was normal enough with all of us D class people sitting together eating whatever mystery meat they fed us. The higher ups sat off to the side. They always seemed busy and stressed constantly looking over their shoulders and talking to each other in whispers. The D class were much louder and seemed genuinely happier. You could tell which group you were in by how many people were smiling is what we joked about.
My job was mainly leg work I worked in what they called a “Containment Area” For god knows what, they never told us, the rumors were from drugs to a prostitution ring no one really knew. Personally I thought it had a more government feel. I thought it was secret weapons or something. I wasn’t far off looking back.
The day it happened was really different. See some higher up gave an order and we did what they said. Mostly I just sat guarding this door. But today was different there were lots of labcoats and military looking guys outside the door. I went up and talked to one of the guns. “Uhh what’s going on?” I asked confused. Maybe I’d get the day off. “That’s on a need to know basis.” He said from his tone I couldn’t tell if he was pissed or bored and it didn’t help that he was wearing these weird goggles. “Alright I need to know I guard this shithole and as far as I can see you’re where I’m supposed to be guarding.” I said probably a little too rudely for my rank but what the hell. “It’s standard maintenance.” He said in his half bored half I’m gonna kill you voice. “You can stand here if you want it’ll be over soon and you’ll hopefully be reassigned.” “Alright then I guess I will” I replied beligerintly this guy was getting on my nerves.
I went to go sit down in my chair and tried to look intimidating. The problem was that I mostly just surfed the internet on my phone or napped when I was “guarding” so my body wasn’t really used to being on high alert. I didn’t want the military faggot to see me sleeping on the job though so I really made an effort but the constant hub of talking and mechanical clinking had me drifting off within the hour. It didn’t help that we usually stayed up late blowing our money at the local “D-Class” strip clubs and last night was no exception. Soon I was full on nodding off.
I guess that’s what saved me. The nodding off I mean. I’m not proud of it but when that shitstorm went down I’m glad my eyes were closed. See I was having this dream where there was an explosion and then all these people screaming in this hole in the ground filled with fire and bodies. Then there were gunshots and in my half asleep state I was like “God damn who’s shooting at me again I’m SLEEPING?” then I woke up for real with a start and it was terrible fucking terrible.
The first thing I noticed was the arm on my lap. What the hell. It looked like a regular arm which is the scariest bit the hand was opening and closing quickly and blood was rushing out all over my pants. Then the screaming and yelling hit me. I turned and looked and saw this… mass it’s belly all swollen and it’s arms all spindly and long, it was kind of human I guess, but like it hadn’t eaten in days. Anyways it was leaping from man to man just I don’t know how to put it. Devouring? Decimating? It was disgusting. I didn’t know what was going on. Pieces of those labcoat guys were just everywhere the metal from the container must have been 4 ft thick was punched open like a rocket launcher hit it. I didn’t know what to do. This was way over my pay grade.
I pulled out my regulation NG-01 and pulled the trigger at the thing out of instinct. It hit it but honestly nothing happened really. It’s skin didn’t look too thick but it didn’t go in. All the military guys who were left alive were yelling something about “Keters” and “Special goggles not working” or some shit. I noticed a few were shielding their eyes from the thing like it was the sun or something which was weird cause it wasn’t. Anyways it finished the guy it was destroying and jumped like no human I’ve seen jump towards the next guy who was looking at it. And oh god the screams. That’s when I lost it. I just kind of puked and fell into the guts of this guy next to me and cried and must’ve passed out. That’s all I really remember. When I came to everyone was in pieces. I don’t know what the fuck this place is but I don’t think I will ever be able to work here again. I mean there were intestines everywhere and the smell and I saw the guy with the glasses or what was left of him he had this look of horror on his face like he saw the most revolting thing in the world right before he died. I don’t know what that thing was but I’m glad I never had to see the front of it.
*Addendum: agent 11345-J was administered a class A amnesiac. He has been reassigned to work in [REDACTED] due to his violent temperment and obvious lack of competence. [DATA EXPUNGED] has been since returned to containment for more information about this see incident Incident-096-1-A.*
| |
[WP] You are a D-class personnel in the SCP foundation. One of the Keter monsters have gotten out, and now you must survive. | D1138 was ushered into the swamp. He brandished a mop, bucket, and squeegee in nervous hands. 682 was secure, he whispered to himself, it is contained, I am protected. He failed to lose the jitters. The artificial swamp that used to contain the foundation's most dangerous anomaly was entirely too quiet, especially for a swamp. "No wonder he breaks out every month, he must be bored" 1138 began mopping the dirt encrusted walkways of the pen. Dirt gave way to blood, gave way to steel. He ambivalently enjoyed the blood waterfall a moment before he lost it from the smell. How long had it been since anyone had cleaned its cage? He pondered and began to squeegee the quadruple paned, security windows. Quietly irked at the minute filth trapped between the individual panes. He prayed for a buffer to get the claw marks out. Struggling against a particular spot of a five-clawed impression he swore as the invisible debris fought his squeegee and tore the brush. Then he froze, was the glass...breathing? He was moving before he could realize why, screaming before he lost squeegee, bucket, and arm with it, "CONTAINMENT...." and 682 leapt from the window, tearing across walkway, pressing him against the door, keycard against the lock. The horrid, reptilian monstrosity losing its transparency bounded into the hall. 1138 screaming in agonizing pain beneath the crushing weight as the SCP howled and drooled caustic acid sizzling the steel inched from his face. With a bound, the creature was across the long hallway, bowling over the security personnel attempting to tranquilize it in time. 1138 was blind to the struggle, surrounded by sizzling acid already eating at the ruin of his uniform and his skin. He started to his feet, slipped in the caustic mess, burning himself horribly before tipping his mop bucket in painful, but effective, relief from the beasts venom. He stumbled through the doorway. The roars of the terrible monster far down the hall, red emergency lights flicking on, disguising the mess of bodies 682 left in his wake. "Fuck this" he muttered, tripping over legs, arms, feeling the faces of people unfamiliar to him in the cold red light. He walked in a daze, barely able to tell the fight wasn't going well. When he turned a corner there would be more bodies, more blood, and open doors that he knew should not be. He found one marked stairs, and nimbly thumbed the latch. It gave open with none of the typical security lag and he knew the building was in trouble. He climbed upwards in a stupor, his body heavy, dragging on the steps. No security lighting in here, no flashlight. He tripped, fell, cried, and started again. He was cold, and he felt watched. He found a corner, waited for the shock to take him. He dozed lightly, until a nearby howl roused him with pumping adrenaline. He took to the stairs two at a time, three if he could manage, upwards into the frigid cold. He collapsed at the landing, panting for breath and feeling the awful cold sear his lungs. "...youumusstbescaaared" something hissed behind him and he flipped on his back, screaming. Hallucinations, he swore. There was only the dark before him and around him, then, quite suddenly, inside him. He felt himself freeze inside and he knew then he'd taken the wrong stairway.
--------------------------------
This is my first prompt, but I can't resist the foundation <3 will double check to ensure accuracy of scps, more than willing to write more | *Wharp! Wharp!* The alarms blared their sickly siren call, summoning all who hear their cry outside. The slamming of doors and the pounding of feet punctuate the plaintive cry of the alert, waking Jackson (Personnel, D-Class (drains and horticulture) ) from his nap.
Poking his head out the door, he spotted the last remnants of the base run along the corridor. Finally tuning into the fact that *this* alarm was not a drill, he grabbed the shoulder of the last person running.
"Wha-what's going on?" The man he grabbed shook him off, and continued running, shouting his reply over his shoulder.
"Get out you fool! A Keter Monster's loose! Ru..." His last word was cut short as the security doors slammed down, plunging the hall into the neon green of the emergency lights.
"But - but what's a Keter monster?" Whispered Jackson, feeling lost and alone in the dark. He turned to walk back to his cubby hole; unfortunately for him, his curiosity as to the emergency was cured a few seconds later. | |
[WP] You are a D-class personnel in the SCP foundation. One of the Keter monsters have gotten out, and now you must survive. | 'This would be safe', they said, 'it would be an okay idea', they said. God I just had to take the offer. I run down the hall of the facility, trying to ignore that thing running after me. They, the men in those white lab coats, said that if I just participated in one of their programs for a month, I would be let of the hook for his crimes. Seemed to be a good deal at the time, better than staying in jail for a decade for selling drugs.
I look back to see the creature running after me. The thing looked like an old man, but it looked like he had rotten flesh all over his body. And that smile, that fucking smile. It was running to fast for a old man to be running that fast.
I look in front of me and see a door, a locked door. It seemed to be one of those safe zones that they always talked about. I get close to it and start to bang on it, screaming for them to let me in. "Sorry, I'm sorry", were the words that I heard come from a intercom. This is how'll die. I look to the left of me, and see a fire extinguisher to the left of me. If I'm going down, might as well make this things life hell for a minute.
"Hey, you", I scream at the creature, who know looks like he's confused, "take this, you fucking asshole!" I pull the fire extinguisher and fire it towards the creature. It falls to the ground, a daze. I then run past it, as fast as I can towards another part of the facility. I'm now in a broom closet, writing this. Tell my wife, I love her.
-
*This note was found on D-38273 in broom closet on site ███, during the date of [REDACTED ON 05-REQUEST]. SCP-106 was successfully contained in its cell two hours after it caused a breach.* | *Wharp! Wharp!* The alarms blared their sickly siren call, summoning all who hear their cry outside. The slamming of doors and the pounding of feet punctuate the plaintive cry of the alert, waking Jackson (Personnel, D-Class (drains and horticulture) ) from his nap.
Poking his head out the door, he spotted the last remnants of the base run along the corridor. Finally tuning into the fact that *this* alarm was not a drill, he grabbed the shoulder of the last person running.
"Wha-what's going on?" The man he grabbed shook him off, and continued running, shouting his reply over his shoulder.
"Get out you fool! A Keter Monster's loose! Ru..." His last word was cut short as the security doors slammed down, plunging the hall into the neon green of the emergency lights.
"But - but what's a Keter monster?" Whispered Jackson, feeling lost and alone in the dark. He turned to walk back to his cubby hole; unfortunately for him, his curiosity as to the emergency was cured a few seconds later. | |
[WP] You are a D-class personnel in the SCP foundation. One of the Keter monsters have gotten out, and now you must survive. | Mac finished mopping the hallway and entered the bathroom, he set the mop against the white tiled wall and pulled a cigarette out of the crumpled pack in his blue uniform breast pocket. The no smoking sign stared him in the face as he lit and took a deep drag. Three months into this job at the SCP, or the Scientific Creationist Program. Mac didn't know what they did here and he didn't care to find out. His job was pushing a mop and cleaning up after the important white lab coat wearing folks. He blew a cloud of smoke toward the vent in the ceiling, if Joseph caught him smoking he would fire him for sure. With a heavy sigh he tossed the half smoked cigarette into the toilet and flushed it away.
He pushed the wet mop around the white tile floors of the bathroom and worked his way toward the door. A heavy metallic screeching stopped him in his tracks. Reflexively he threw the bolt lock on the bathroom door and took a few nervous steps back. The screech sounded like it had come from the hallway. He felt like lighting up another cigarette to calm his frayed nerves.
"Just being stupid," he said to himself trying to shake the fear out of his old bones. He listened at the door for a few long seconds hearing nothing.
"See nothing to be worried about," he mumbled and reached for the dead bolt. Something heavy threw itself into the door, the frame bent slightly and the door was slightly warped in the center. Again and again something hit the door desperately trying to break through, it screeched in frustration. Mac ran on the slick floor and hid in the toilet praying that whatever it was would stop.
"Please stop, please stop," he repeated over and over holding his hands over his ears.
Mac could barely hear the gunshots, but he had lived in bad enough neighborhoods to recognize them. The creature let out another screech. Men were yelling in the hallway and the gunshots came in rapid fire. They were silenced by an ear splitting screech and sounds of men screaming in pain.
Silence.
Mac sat on the toilet for a long time before he mustered the courage to walk to the door. His heart raced in his chest as he reached out for the dead bolt. As quietly as he could manage he turned it and opened the door.
The once clean white walls were covered in blood, the floor Mac had mopped a few minutes before was a thick pool of coagulating blood. Severed limbs, black combat boots, rifles, hair, intestines, everything that should be inside a human body was floating in the thick pool. Mac vomited.
He had to make it to the service elevator. It was the only way he could escape, his janitor badge wouldn't work on any other door. He steeled his fleeting courage and walked through the blood. The sickening sound of blood sticking to his boots almost made him throw up again. Deep claw like gouges were torn out of the wall like a massive bear swiped the walls. Whatever it was, Mac didn't want to find it. The main lights had gone out and the emergency lights were sporadic making it so Mac had to walk through dark spots in certain hallways. *Anything could be hiding in those shadows,* he thought to himself as he approached each one. He had never thought of himself as a coward, but he ran like a child down the hallway when he saw the service elevator at the end of it. He swiped his white badge over the proximity reader. A red light flashed.
"Shit!"
He swiped again. Red. Red. Red.
"No, no no no no!"
He swiped again. Green.
"Yes!"
The twin steel doors slid open. A deafening screech came from down the hallway behind him. He didn't want to turn his head, but his body refused to listen.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw a large shape barreling toward him.
"Holy shit!"
He jumped into the elevator and smashed the close door button over and over.
It screeched again as it raced down the hallway. Mac could see thick fur covering a snarling bearlike face. Yellow eyes glowed in the shadows it passed through. The doors slid closed as the creature hit them. Claws scratched against the metal doors trying to force them open.
"Go go go go!"
The elevator heard his prayers and lurched upward. Seventeen floors later the elevator came to a stop at the service entry to the facility. His rusted truck sat in the parking lot, he started a slow jog down the concrete service ramp toward it.
Something heavy struck him in the face that sent him spinning to the ground.
A man in a white lab coat stood over him with three armed men dressed in black combat gear.
Mac felt a sharp pain in the side of his neck and saw a syringe in the doctor's hand.
"What are we going to do with him?" one of the armed men asked the doctor.
"We haven't gotten to human trials yet. But, I think the Director will make an exception after what our janitor friend has seen. Contain the other Keter, alive if possible. If not, well, we might just have a replacement." the doctor said as Mac's eyes slid closed.
---
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| *Wharp! Wharp!* The alarms blared their sickly siren call, summoning all who hear their cry outside. The slamming of doors and the pounding of feet punctuate the plaintive cry of the alert, waking Jackson (Personnel, D-Class (drains and horticulture) ) from his nap.
Poking his head out the door, he spotted the last remnants of the base run along the corridor. Finally tuning into the fact that *this* alarm was not a drill, he grabbed the shoulder of the last person running.
"Wha-what's going on?" The man he grabbed shook him off, and continued running, shouting his reply over his shoulder.
"Get out you fool! A Keter Monster's loose! Ru..." His last word was cut short as the security doors slammed down, plunging the hall into the neon green of the emergency lights.
"But - but what's a Keter monster?" Whispered Jackson, feeling lost and alone in the dark. He turned to walk back to his cubby hole; unfortunately for him, his curiosity as to the emergency was cured a few seconds later. | |
[WP] You are a D-class personnel in the SCP foundation. One of the Keter monsters have gotten out, and now you must survive. | Mac finished mopping the hallway and entered the bathroom, he set the mop against the white tiled wall and pulled a cigarette out of the crumpled pack in his blue uniform breast pocket. The no smoking sign stared him in the face as he lit and took a deep drag. Three months into this job at the SCP, or the Scientific Creationist Program. Mac didn't know what they did here and he didn't care to find out. His job was pushing a mop and cleaning up after the important white lab coat wearing folks. He blew a cloud of smoke toward the vent in the ceiling, if Joseph caught him smoking he would fire him for sure. With a heavy sigh he tossed the half smoked cigarette into the toilet and flushed it away.
He pushed the wet mop around the white tile floors of the bathroom and worked his way toward the door. A heavy metallic screeching stopped him in his tracks. Reflexively he threw the bolt lock on the bathroom door and took a few nervous steps back. The screech sounded like it had come from the hallway. He felt like lighting up another cigarette to calm his frayed nerves.
"Just being stupid," he said to himself trying to shake the fear out of his old bones. He listened at the door for a few long seconds hearing nothing.
"See nothing to be worried about," he mumbled and reached for the dead bolt. Something heavy threw itself into the door, the frame bent slightly and the door was slightly warped in the center. Again and again something hit the door desperately trying to break through, it screeched in frustration. Mac ran on the slick floor and hid in the toilet praying that whatever it was would stop.
"Please stop, please stop," he repeated over and over holding his hands over his ears.
Mac could barely hear the gunshots, but he had lived in bad enough neighborhoods to recognize them. The creature let out another screech. Men were yelling in the hallway and the gunshots came in rapid fire. They were silenced by an ear splitting screech and sounds of men screaming in pain.
Silence.
Mac sat on the toilet for a long time before he mustered the courage to walk to the door. His heart raced in his chest as he reached out for the dead bolt. As quietly as he could manage he turned it and opened the door.
The once clean white walls were covered in blood, the floor Mac had mopped a few minutes before was a thick pool of coagulating blood. Severed limbs, black combat boots, rifles, hair, intestines, everything that should be inside a human body was floating in the thick pool. Mac vomited.
He had to make it to the service elevator. It was the only way he could escape, his janitor badge wouldn't work on any other door. He steeled his fleeting courage and walked through the blood. The sickening sound of blood sticking to his boots almost made him throw up again. Deep claw like gouges were torn out of the wall like a massive bear swiped the walls. Whatever it was, Mac didn't want to find it. The main lights had gone out and the emergency lights were sporadic making it so Mac had to walk through dark spots in certain hallways. *Anything could be hiding in those shadows,* he thought to himself as he approached each one. He had never thought of himself as a coward, but he ran like a child down the hallway when he saw the service elevator at the end of it. He swiped his white badge over the proximity reader. A red light flashed.
"Shit!"
He swiped again. Red. Red. Red.
"No, no no no no!"
He swiped again. Green.
"Yes!"
The twin steel doors slid open. A deafening screech came from down the hallway behind him. He didn't want to turn his head, but his body refused to listen.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw a large shape barreling toward him.
"Holy shit!"
He jumped into the elevator and smashed the close door button over and over.
It screeched again as it raced down the hallway. Mac could see thick fur covering a snarling bearlike face. Yellow eyes glowed in the shadows it passed through. The doors slid closed as the creature hit them. Claws scratched against the metal doors trying to force them open.
"Go go go go!"
The elevator heard his prayers and lurched upward. Seventeen floors later the elevator came to a stop at the service entry to the facility. His rusted truck sat in the parking lot, he started a slow jog down the concrete service ramp toward it.
Something heavy struck him in the face that sent him spinning to the ground.
A man in a white lab coat stood over him with three armed men dressed in black combat gear.
Mac felt a sharp pain in the side of his neck and saw a syringe in the doctor's hand.
"What are we going to do with him?" one of the armed men asked the doctor.
"We haven't gotten to human trials yet. But, I think the Director will make an exception after what our janitor friend has seen. Contain the other Keter, alive if possible. If not, well, we might just have a replacement." the doctor said as Mac's eyes slid closed.
---
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| 'This would be safe', they said, 'it would be an okay idea', they said. God I just had to take the offer. I run down the hall of the facility, trying to ignore that thing running after me. They, the men in those white lab coats, said that if I just participated in one of their programs for a month, I would be let of the hook for his crimes. Seemed to be a good deal at the time, better than staying in jail for a decade for selling drugs.
I look back to see the creature running after me. The thing looked like an old man, but it looked like he had rotten flesh all over his body. And that smile, that fucking smile. It was running to fast for a old man to be running that fast.
I look in front of me and see a door, a locked door. It seemed to be one of those safe zones that they always talked about. I get close to it and start to bang on it, screaming for them to let me in. "Sorry, I'm sorry", were the words that I heard come from a intercom. This is how'll die. I look to the left of me, and see a fire extinguisher to the left of me. If I'm going down, might as well make this things life hell for a minute.
"Hey, you", I scream at the creature, who know looks like he's confused, "take this, you fucking asshole!" I pull the fire extinguisher and fire it towards the creature. It falls to the ground, a daze. I then run past it, as fast as I can towards another part of the facility. I'm now in a broom closet, writing this. Tell my wife, I love her.
-
*This note was found on D-38273 in broom closet on site ███, during the date of [REDACTED ON 05-REQUEST]. SCP-106 was successfully contained in its cell two hours after it caused a breach.* | |
[WP]: She now has the chance to fix her ruined life by going back to the decision that caused it. For some reason that moment was when she was asked "What flavour do you want?" at Baskin Robbins. | Molly stood at the edge of the roof, the wind blowing her hair into her tear stained face. She was ready to jump, ready to end it. She nudged a piece of gravel off and watched it fall.
"There's no going back now," she said out loud.
"Or is there?" She heard a voice call out from behind her. She turned to see an old man standing about fifteen feet away, smiling at her.
"Don't bother trying to stop me!" She shouted at him. How dare he take this moment from her?
"Oh I'm not trying to stop you Molly." The old man casually kicked at the gravel.
"How do you know my name?" She asked as she looked at him closer, trying to figure out if she knew him somehow.
"Oh, I know you Molly Jane Clark, I know your soul. I know the pain you're in. I know why you want to jump off of this building and I understand it. But what if you could change everything?"
"I can't," she cried, "it's too late."
"It's never too late my dear," the old man said softly, "what if you could go back to the moment that sent you down this path, the moment that set all of the horrible things in your life in motion, and change it? Make a different choice. Would you do it?"
"Of course I would, but that's impossible." Molly responded, annoyed that this strange man was stalling her with nonsense.
The old man grinned at her, "Nothing is impossible."
She hadn't noticed but he had moved closer during their conversation. He reached out and grabbed her hand. There was a flash of light and suddenly she was standing in front of a counter. Behind it was a guy in a pink shirt.
"What flavor would you like?" He asked.
"What?" She asked, confused.
*I was just on the roof wasn't I?* she thought to herself.
"What flavor would you like?" The pink shirted man asked again.
Then it clicked. She remembered this day, the first day, the day it all began. She turned around and saw him. John Clark. It all came flooding back and she realized why she was back there. She had ordered Love Potion #31 that day. John had overheard her.
"Love Potion you say?" He asked with a smile, "you can use that on me if you want."
She laughed. It was a cheesy line but he was cute. He ordered the same and they ate together. He flirted with her and she liked it. She gave him her number. They dated for 3 years. For 3 years she was happy, but then they married and things changed. The first time he hit her, she blamed it on the alcohol. He seemed so sorry. He would never do it again. After the tenth time she was too scared to leave.
He made her alienate her friends and family. He made her quit her job and stay at home to take care of him and the house. Then she got pregnant, but he didn't want a baby. So he punched her in the stomach until she miscarried.
As she stood there in Baskin Robbins she remembered all this. She remembered the times he raped her, the time he burned her arm on the stove. She stared at him for what seemed like eternity and cried, knowing that this was the moment. This was her chance to change everything.
"Ma'am?" The cashier asked, pulling her back to the present.
"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes, "I changed my mind, I'm not hungry."
As she walked toward the door she heard his voice. "Thanks for holding up the line, lady."
She didn't look back, she just walked out the door, smiling for the first time in years. | “What flavor do you want?”
What the hell? I knew this was some sort of twisted dream. As if I was actually going to just get another chance. Not that I really knew what I was expecting, it’s not like there was any particular moment I can point to where I think to myself “Shit, I messed up”. For all I know this is just one of those relative things, my life was literally so bad that it was comparatively ruined when I –
“Ma’am? Do you need a minute?”
Well, ice cream is ice cream I suppose.
“Oh, uh, I’ll take uh Chocolate Ch– actually, I’ll have two scoops of, let’s see here, Pistachio Almond, please.”
I hated Pistachio Almond, it was the worst excuse for a dessert I could have ever conceived. Aren’t pistachios already nuts? You’re telling me someone had the nerve to make a nut flavored ice cream and then put more nuts in it? But I sure as shit wasn’t going to be picking the same flavor I always did. This was the moment that ruined my life after all.
“Pistachio Almond? I must admit, I’ve never once seen someone order that one.”
“Yeah, I’m actually a little concerned, for all I know they’ve had that same bucket sitting there for years untouched.”
I shared a brief smile with the stranger in line and as soon as I looked back over to the server he was handing me my order. I quickly paid and turned, heading for the door, but as I reached to open it something stopped me.
“Yes I’ll take one scoop of Chocolate Chip in a waffle cone, please.”
I walked back over to the stranger just as the server went to make his order.
“Hey, I’m actually new in the area and was wondering if you’d like to grab some lunch or a movie some time?”
“Oh, wow, well, of course. Want to grab a seat and work out the details over some ice cream?”
“That sounds fantastic, I’ll grab a table and let you pay. Good choice by the way, Chocolate Chip is my favorite.”
“Really? What compelled you to go with Pistachio Almond this time? No offense or anything, but that’s the last one I’d pick. Who puts extra nuts in their nut flavored ice cream?” | |
[WP] You've lost an object you need, but don't reveal what it is until the last sentence | The clock said, "6:48." Nothing beats a six hour after lunch nap.
I wasn't going to do jack today, anyway. I rolled over on the bed to face the ceiling. Or floor. Both, really, since this was a basement. Cob webs and dust spiders lived up in the dark support beams. They creaked as someone entered into the house upstairs. My mom must be home.
My gut turned over, and I sat up. I was supposed to do something for mom today. It's like she thinks I'm lazy, just because I have different priorities than her. I'll get a job when I want to get a job. I'll find a girl when I'm good and ready. (God knows I'm always good and ready.) What was it? Get something? Do something?
I did make her a promise, though. What was it? I woke up this morning. She was already at work. I ate the rest of that cardboard, fiber cereal she always buys. Ever since dad, she's been on a health kick, but it doesn't show. I think the fiber's just settling in her hips, and agitating her when she shits. She can feel it settled down, bits of papery cereal that never comes out. I wish she'd buy some Golden Grahams again. Dad always liked Golden Grahams.
The door to the basement opened. The stairs thought about breaking as she walked down them.
"Fuck, Jimmy. Didn't we talk about this?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"I can't even ask you do to one thing. One thing. It was going to take you half-a-fucking-hour. Now, I'm going to have to reschedule, and pay the fee. Why can't you just take some responsibility around here?"
"How do you know I didn't?"
"Because you car hasn't moved, asshole."
"How do you know I didn't just re-park it carefully?"
"Don't give me that."
"What did you ask me to do?"
"You always give me that. This morning. I woke you up. You said you would run an errand for me. I called ahead, and set it up. I said you'd be there in ten minutes."
"I don't even remember having this conversation, lady."
"Are you serious? It's been over ninety degrees outside all day."
"So?"
"So, I put the fucking dog in your car before I left for work!" | I know it's here somewhere. Argh! I just had it. In. My. Hand. Okay, not in my purse. Pockets? No. Kitchen counter maybe?
"Hold on a second, Mom. I'm looking for something and I want to hear what you are saying. Ugh. Sorry I'm so distracted." I set the phone on the counter.
I need to leave in 5 minutes, or in going to be late. This is ridiculous.
Upstairs? Maybe I left it on the bathroom shelf? No again. I'm the only one here, so I can't even blame the kids.
Did I leave it in the car? Where are my keys? Ah. Right where I left them. Good.
Not in the car. Dammit.
"Honey, what are you looking for?"
"My phone. I can't find my phone!" | |
[WP] After a drunken night of partying, two teenage aliens awake to find they have abducted the president of the United States | Tyz and Kleff woke up with the worst hangovers of their young lives.
"Dude, what happened last night?" Tyz asked his buddy.
Despite the best effort of the malt liquor still running through his veins, Kleff ran through the events of last night through his mind. It all started when Kleff's father, Xenu the Conqueror left him alone for the weekend while he ran some errands and subjugated some planets. Tyz saw the space armada leave the planet and immediately went to his buddy's house with a backpack full of booze and drugs. Tyz was good like that.
What wasn't good is that when the pair came to, they were in orbit around a small blue and green marble of a planet in one of Xenu the Conqueror's star frigates he left behind. Empty cans of liquid carbohydrates littered the bridge with flat empty grease stained boxes. Kleff picked one up and read it.
"Oh gross, dude, we ate something called Pizza Hut last night."
Tyz vaguely remembered that part.
"Okay, dude, lets take a step back and figure this out. Okay, so we started drinking at your place."
"Yeah."
"Then had some of that Galactic Chronic I brought"
"Shit yeah we did."
"Then you wanted to go on an interstellar booze run."
That's the part that Kleff didn't remember. It did sound like him though, so he accepted as truth.
"That sounds like me. So obviously we landed on that planet, otherwise we wouldn't have had all this booze and pizza. Wait. I vaguely remember weird looking bipedal primates that were screaming. Was that a thing?"
Suddenly from behind a mountain of empty beer cans and pizza boxes, one of the weird primates from the night before emerged. He had a thin tuft of blond hair haphazardly attached to a frumpy orange head. It started waving it's arms around and making ridiculous grunting noises while squinting it's ugly little face. Kleff realized that this might somehow be sentient and turned on the Universal Translator.
"...and who the hell do you think you are? I am the President of the United god damn States of America! And what in God's name do you want with me? You think that the United States of America will surrender just because you've manage to steal the President? You're dead wrong, kiddo. As we speak nations of the world are rallying to kick your ass. I chose Sarah Palin as my Vice President because I knew I could trust her in a situation like this. As we speak she is going to scramble Earth's largest power house to save me and deport your asses back to wherever they came from and..."
Kleff rubbed his forehead with one of his tentacles. What the fuck was this thing talking about? Tyz covered the Primates mouth. "Little orange dude, man, chill for a second."
"I'm Kleff, son of Xenu, and this is my buddy Tyz. We're from beyond the stars. We're what you would call an alien."
"I thought that I built a wall to keep you criminals out!"
"This is some kind of mistake, we're going to take you back to your planet and you can live out your days being as angry as you want, no harm done?"
As he said that, the communicator went off and Tyz went over to check it out.
"Oh man, they found a way to communicate with us! They're going to be pissed, I think this guy is their king or tyrant or something!"
"Answer it, dude!"
Tyz hit the answer button and the hologram of a primate with a beehive hairdo and square little glasses appeared.
"Hello? Is this thing on? Now how do you work this dang thing..."
Kleff looked around and realized he didn't have his holo-communicator. He must have left it somewhere and that's how the primates are contacting them.
The hologram continued on "Now, I don't know who you guys are working for, be in the Chinese or the Russians or the Muslims, but stealing the President of the United States isn't going to make us surrender. I'll have you know that I just got off the phone with NASA and they'll have a spaceship that can send a group of Navy Seals to forcibly board you guys within five years as long as you stay where you are!"
The orange creature broke free of Tyz's grip and ran to the hologram.
"Sarah! How are you here right now?"
"These two left some sort of alien communicator in a strip club in Montreal. They landed there before flying to DC. The Prime Minister of Canada had it flown to the Pentagon as soon as he heard what happened. We're going to save you, Mister Trump."
It was that moment that they realized how primitive these creatures really were. They could just throw this hairless demon out the airlock, fly off, and never have to worry about hearing from them again. But every once in a while you get into an insane situation without even trying, and there's two things you can do: Back out and forget it happened or go with it. Kleff decided on the latter.
"Tiny little primate." he addressed to the hologram "See how big and mighty our space ship is? We stole your Mighty Orange King and your precious Pizza Huts without even so much as trying. Surrender your planet now or we will return with a great fleet. We will lay waste to your puny planet, hangover or no hangover."
Tyz grabbed him and took him aside.
"Dude, what are you doing?"
"Imagine how happy my dad would be if he returned from his Space Crusade we conquered an extra planet for him! I mean, it's kind of humid and terrible, but it's a great start!"
| "Man, Slagoth what the fuck happened last night"
"Shh, my head"
"Stop being so peek. And why are we in your dad's ship"
"My, what! Oh shit I'm dead I'm so dead... WTF. What or who maybe is that?"
"An Earthican maybe"
"Why is it orange"
**"Illegal aliens! Why didn't you stay behind the wall"** Donald Trump shouted. | |
[WP] An apple a day actually does keep the doctor away. Doctors and apple farmers are now locked in a battle for dominance over the American health care system. | Greg stared at his guest as his sister, Grace, puttered about in the kitchen, mugs clinking and the oven beeping. Said guest, dressed in a comically crisp, fresh-pressed plaid button-up and what appeared to be brand new blue-jean coveralls, met his gaze levelly. Squeaky clean name brand sneakers peeked out from under the cuffed pant legs. The man wiped at his nose with a gardening glove-clad hand.
"Dr. Owens," said Greg, slowly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Greg himself was wearing a faded red t-shirt and a pair of comfortable jeans. His feet were toasty in the new memory foam slippers his daughter had gotten him for Christmas.
The doctor sniffed. "Is that ginger snaps you've got a-goin' in the baker?" he said. "Smells mighty fine to me, yessir." The words fell oddly from his mouth; he delivered them with confidence, and yet they sounded all wrong, like they didn't quite fit between his teeth. Greg wondered if Dr. Owens was practicing for one of the plays down at the community theater.
Doc Owens--his parents had actually named him "Doctorate", in the hopes that he would pursue a PhD; they had been infinitely, vocally disappointed when he had gone in for his M.D. instead--had gone to med school when the profession was at its zenith. Pharma salesman took you out on "business" lunches. Drug companies paid for you to go on fancy cruises with other doctors where the filet mignon and racks of lamb were almost as juicy as the deals going on under the table. The patient trusted you to tell them what was wrong with them and how much they had to pay you to fix it. All was golden and merry in the world of healthcare, and he was the friendly face providing it to the citizens of his little town.
Slowly though, it started to go awry. Scrutiny increased and suddenly big pharma wasn't footing the bill for all his lunches any more. Doc had had to start packing his own brown bags. And cruises just weren't the same when he had to pay for them himself and bring his wife along. And then the direct-to-consumer advertising had the patients asking directly for this drug, or for that drug. Doc's word just wasn't good enough any more; wasn't the handsome doctor in that TV spot just great? And don't even get him started on the healthcare reform. But still, Doc's patients kept coming in through the door, and Doc kept treating them. Some of them even got better.
But then, in 2016, a research group in Canada had shown, as definitively as was possible, that a certain cultivar of apple, possibly closely related to the first wild apples grown in the Middle East, cured *everything* if taken at a dosage of one apple daily. The scientists had dug further to discover they could not isolate the active compound that gave the apple its pharmaceutical effectiveness. It wasn't in the peel, or the flesh, or the core, or the pits. Or rather, it was in all of them; the whole fruit had to be eaten, core and all, or it had no medicinal use. Juicing the fruit did not work. Beating the entire thing to a pulp, however, did, as long as every morsel was eaten.
The fruit was a dark, gorgeous red. The horticulturalists who had refined the cultivar named it *Panacea*.
It had been more of a poison apple to the healthcare industry. It cured all infectious diseases, cancers, autoimmune diseases... Epidemiologists were practically out of a job, as were most medical researchers. The only areas of medicine not savaged by the discovery were those concerned with genetic disorders which occurred prenatally. Severe, immediate traumas such as broken bones could also not be entirely undone, and bullet wounds still required experienced practitioners to treat, though even then, consumption of the *Panacea* still went a long way towards warding off infection of the injuries and speeding overall recovery.
Doc Owens had sulked with others in his profession at a recent conference about the matter. There were slideshows, and angry debating, and plummeting line graphs. There had been talk of uniting against the apple farmers who almost ubiquitously had turned their orchards to producing *Panacea*, for which demand had risen to untold levels. The supply of apples was laughably small, due to the recency of the scientific findings (and then agencies like the FDA had to review the claims and approve them before the apples could be mass-farmed and marketed), and the finicky nature of the cultivar. Apple farmers were raking in a fortune, while doctors were losing patients left and right.
"Surely, our lobbyists in D.C. can do something for our cause," Doc had said to a well-respected doctor who was in attendance at the conference and who seemed like he would Know of These Things.
But the doctor shook his head with regret. "They've got the religious advocacy groups backing them, saying it's a gift from God and all, forgiveness for all that business with the other Fruit. There's no winning in D.C. for us now." And then the doctor had hugged Doc, knocking Doc's tepid shrimp cocktail out of his hand and down his shirt, and Doc just stood there, covered in seafood and warm tears, unable to comprehend what his life was coming to.
Doc had been so frustrated. Medicine had been a part of human civilization for so long; surely it couldn't be quashed overnight! (Though, from a regulatory standpoint, it had actually taken several years for all this to go from, if you'll excuse the use, seed to fruit.) He had started throwing out ideas, though none would listen:
Ally with the apple farmers; convince them to set a quota on how many apples they would sell a year, to "leave some patients for the rest of us."
Put money into the right hands; convince *them* to set a quota on how many apples could be sold a year.
Get the apples to be prescription-only. That way, the doctors still had to be consulted first. An office fee was nothing to sneeze at.
Flood the market with counterfeit *Panacea* apples. With an uncertain inventory of cures versus duds, patients would willingly run back to their capable doctors.
Finally, Doc found himself at the podium, with his tie off and his top buttons undone, still covered in cocktail sauce, shouting "BURN THE FIELDS! BURN THE FIELDS!" at his fervent audience of three remaining attendees (the others having gone home to be with their families) and two custodians, waiting patiently for them to leave so that clean-up could begin. Doc stared glassily around the near-empty room, then walked away from the podium to collect his things and drive twelve hours home.
Now, he sat at Greg's table, sipping hot cider and eating a ginger snap. Greg was, of course, an apple farmer. Doc Owens's parents had always ridiculed Greg's family in Doc's youth. "Go to college, Doc," Mr. Owens had said, "Get a *real* degree, or you'll become an apple-picker like Greg there."
"Now, Doc Owens," said Greg, "Suppose you tell me what this visit's all about." Greg already had a pretty good inkling, having already seen a few of Doc's colleagues pass through this same kitchen table.
Doc scratched his head and sniffled, a little embarrassed. "Now, Farmer Greg," he said.
"Just Greg please," said Greg.
"Alright, Greg. I know we've had our differences in the past."
"You tried to set fire to my crop--"
"I know, and I'm real sorry."
"--in the rain. By flinging matches at the soaking wet trees. Out there all by yourself in that storm. We were worried about you, Doc. You could've gotten struck by lightning. Or a cold."
"Well," said Doc, wiping at his nose again with his glove, "you got that last part right." He sipped at the hot cider. "The cider's mighty fine-good though. Thankee kindly, Mizz Grace."
"You're welcome," said Grace, a little put off by Doc's vernacular.
"Now, Far--Greg. Greg, I know I've been a little off my rocker lately. And you know, it... it ain't easy what me losin' all my patients to this apple thing and all. But I--I know what I done ain't right. And I'm jus... jus tryin' to make it up to ya. And I seen the sign out front that says you lot need help, so, well, here ya go."
Doc pushed a two-page document across the table. It read *Curriculum Vitae* in the header in a very professional looking font. Greg picked it up and looked it over.
"I know it don't mean much to ya," Doc was saying, "What with y'all not bein' from a college crowd or whatnot."
"I went to the state college," Greg said mildly. "They have a very good agricultural sciences program, you know."
"Oh, well then," Doc stumbled around verbally for a bit, making all kinds of polite, rustic noises.
"It's fine, Doc," said Greg. He nodded to his sister and Grace presented the doctor with a deep ruby apple. The doctor held it with trembling hands as he gazed upon its terrible visage. "You can come work for me on one condition."
"What's that, pardner?"
"Drop that goshdarn accent. It don't suit you one lick." Grace smirked.
Doc stared deeply into his reflection on the shiny peel of the apple. Then, he bit into it, his teeth breaking the perfectly taut skin, crunching through the sweet flesh beneath. Chewing, he thought he could feel it already, a clear eddy of coolness and calm flowing through his mind and muscles. He breathed deeply through his nose, finding it absolutely free from congestion. Doc found he could not stop smiling.
"Whatever you say, boss."
--
Thanks for reading! Edited to include the daily dosage and a typo ;) | “Just look at it. Genetic perfection, and it fits in the palm of your hand.”
Farmer Joe took a bite of the superapple, then chewed it slowly and deliberately. “Doesn’t taste half bad either.”
Thomas Bartlett, holding a clipboard and jotting down a few notes, nodded appreciatively. The two men stood in a vast greenhouse, which contained legions of trees extending into the distance for what seemed like miles. Each tree had a small device attached to it, indicating temperature, pH balance, and DNA structure. Thomas slid his pen into his shirt pocket and turned to his host.
“I have to say, I’m impressed, Joe. We’ll be in touch in a few days regarding investment and the potential for going public. If you need anything before then, give me a call.”
He handed Joe a card marked *Bartlett and Sons Stock Trading*. They shook hands and parted ways as Thomas nervously stuck his hands in his left pants pocket.
*
“I got some.”
Thomas pulled his hand out of his pocket, produced four tiny brownish seeds, and shoved them in the face of a lanky woman wearing a white lab coat. She adjusted her glasses and crinkled her nose.
“That’s it?”
“Yes. That’s their secret. He told me everything. Every morning they take an apple from each tree, remove the seeds, place ‘em on a conveyer belt and pop the seeds in the ground. It’s just one big mix.”
“Well, all right.”
Dr. Baird slid her gloves on and grabbed a needle from a nearby countertop. Thomas dropped the seeds delicately into her palm, and she stuck the needle directly in the center of each, a fluorescent purple substance slowly draining from the liquid chamber.
She handed the seeds back to him and smiled. “Good luck.”
*
“Thanks for stopping by again.” Joe gingerly shook Thomas’s hand and began to walk towards the back corner of Greenhouse 11B. “It’s been a stressful time lately but the preliminary pear tests have been successful.”
As he entered the door, Thomas looked around to make sure no one was watching. He removed the seeds from his pocket and dropped them on the conveyer belt, already littered with the morning’s apple seed take.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing for us, Thomas. You know, when I started manufacturing the apples, I wasn’t in it for the money. Just to share what I’d discovered with the rest of the world. But man, when I was hearing the stories from people – feeling better than they had in years, wrinkles disappearing, stronger bones – I just knew I had to go bigger. With your help, the pears and oranges could be on the market but the end of this calendar year.”
Thomas grinned. “Well, let’s just see how these next couple weeks go, OK? We both know Wall Street’s carefully monitoring your progress.”
Joe sighed. “Yup. But I’m excited.”
They shook hands and Thomas left through the back door.
Within a few days, the first tainted apples would begin to grow. Seconds after taking their first bite, the customers would feel nauseous and dizzy – symptoms which would persist for one week, long enough to annoy but not long enough to kill. In other words, a PR nightmare.
If the first round didn’t work well enough, Thomas thought, he could just maintain the ruse and come back with a stronger dose – a new batch of maladies to inject. It might take a couple tries, but he was sure they’d get it right and topple the Bolton Farms empire.
After all, doctors know a thing or two about infections.
| |
[WP] At age 15, you made a deal with the Devil to save your life. Every week, you must choose a person you've seen and that person will die....you are now 24 years old. | It's been a long time since I last sat down with the Devil; nine years to be more precise. I was waiting for him at a local diner; the booth at the end, he said. I was enjoying what could be my last ever chocolate pancake because the last time I met the Devil, he was there to kill me. Long story short, we made a deal: I get to live my life and in return I have to choose a person to die - every day for the rest of my life.
Fuck, here he comes. Sharp dressed as always, hair slicked back, square jawed like Brad Pitt. He sits down.
"Enjoying your breakfast, Bo?" - he asked
'Told you this could be my last breakfast. However, I didn't answer his question. I don't know why, I wasn't really scared to be honest, just curious about this whole meeting of ours.
"You've played me well. All these years you've been playing me well." - he said.
"I honestly don't know what you're talking about." - I replied.
"Oh, I think you do. We made the deal back when you were just fifteen. And I have to say, I was very impressed when in just a little under twelve hours you've sent me your first soul. I was like, this kid is evil. But then I started noticing something. A pattern."
We were suddenly interrupted by the waitress asking the Devil what he'd order.
"The darkest coffee you have." - the Devil told the waitress.
"I'm fine." - I pointed at my pancake.
The waitress left. The suspense returned. The Devil didn't say anything for about ten seconds. Ten seconds that felt like ten hours. He lowered his body bellow the table to reach his briefcase. He took out some documents and placed them on the table.
"Look at this, Bo." - finally he spoke. "Your first victim: Reverend James Carlton. He molested your best friend when he was eleven years old. I can understand why you chose him first. He hurt your friend and you wanted to hurt him back."
At this point I'm starting to figure out where this is going.
"Second victim--" - he continued. "Chris Puller. You didn't know his name, but he broke into your home that night. Then, Elizabeth Wachowski - middle school teacher that had an affair with almost every senior in your school. Jerome Dean, local drug dealer. Harold Jackson, serial rapist. Angelica Barlow, she strangled her baby daughter because she cried all night."
"I don't see what's the issue here!?" - I dared to interrupt him.
"The issue here, Bo, is that you've been sending me very bad people! You are technically a hero, and I don't want that!"
"I don't remember we agreed on what type of people I should kill. I made the obvious choices."
"Well, today, that's about to change. Get up!" - he stood up, threw some cash on the table and pulled me up. "Outside!"
We went outside. We walked to the edge of the sidewalk in front of the diner. Across the street was a park with a lot of children were playing while their parents were reading books and enjoying the sight. I get it! He didn't choose this place because of the diner. He chose It because of the park.
"I want you to kill an innocent person today." - he whispered onto my ear. "A child, a caring mother, a hard working father. Someone young, free. Someone with ambition, in love, happy. I want you to kill a person that will be missed and will never be forgotten. Not your usual scumbag criminals that don't worth a dime and pollute my kingdom."
My legs were shaking. I could feel my heart beat up my throat. He then pointed to a young beautiful woman. She was in her early 20's and was playing with her little daughter in the sandbox.
"Look how innocent she is. She's full of life. You can feel her love for that child from here, you can sense her joy. Kill her." - he spoke calm, like it's nothing. Like this is some sort of a silly game and everyone will be fine at the end of the day. "Just think about her dying and It will all be over in a moment."
"I want to go closer to them." - i told the Devil. "I want be closer to them when I kill her so I can hold the kid and tell her that everything's gonna be fine."
He nodded with his head. "Whatever you want, Bo."
Just as I was about to make my first step, I pulled back and with all my power pushed the Devil on to the street. He managed to stay on his feet and slowly turned at me, confused. And just as he was about to say something, he got hit by a truck. It all happened in a second.
The truck eventually stopped and the driver rushed out to see what happened. But all could he see was me. The Devil was no where to be found. He wasn't on the street, he wasn't in the park and he sure wasn't on sidewalk where I was. He disappeared. I could see the truck driver confused and scared in the same time. I slowly turned around and went back to the diner. I went back to the booth and I saw the waitress from before cleaning the table. I rushed and told her to leave the pancake. She nodded, took the mug from which the Devil drank his coffee and left. I sat down and continued to eat what now certainly is the last chocolate pancake I'll ever it.
| The needs of the many outwight the needs of the few. Not just some random quote used again and again throughout many forms of media, but something most people would agree on as a basic principle of how the world works. How their world works. Well, I dont think I've ever been considered part of "their" world. I like to think I am, because don't we all? But when it comes down to it, when I'm all alone in my room at night thinking over all the things I've seen, what I've done, I know deep in my heart that's never been the case.
Because for all people like to pull their high and mighty, all caring and martyr like behavors to make themselves look good, in the end, everyone only looks out for themselves. If doing good things for others makes them feel good about themselves, that's still something in it for them. There's no such thing in this world as a selfless motivation, because at our cores, humans have always been vile creatures who only want what's best for them and their own.
With such an outlook on the world, I've never questioned the choice I made so long ago. Never regretted it. So one person has to die every now and then. One peraon of my choosing, so that I can live on. You'd think after a while all that blood on your conscience would wear you down, make you angry, make you start to regret. But me? Maybe I've been fucked from the beginning. I've grown to like my devil, my guardian angel as I've taken to calling him. I never go for the evil, the good, the sixkly, poor, wealthy. No one in particular, no pattern. I see someone, and it's always been more of an impulse than a conscious decision. Wven an infant or a child, old man or someone in their prime. I look at them as I pass them by, and decide it's time for them to die.
Am i God? No. I've never held such delusions over myself. I've always believed everything happens for a reason, and maybe me and my angel were brought together for this reason. My life for the price of so many others. Would anyone notice? Probably not. But it gets me wondering. Am I the only one? Has this really been a power, a curse some would say, that only I was gifted with?
Somehow, I doubt it. Something twlls me that it wasnt just me. That all over the world, there must be others with these devils, these guardian angels, angels of death, that were sent to desperate kids like me to help bring balance to an over populated world. It's not like it makes the killing any easier, or gives me any delusions of grandure, but it is a strange comfort to know I could be part of something muxh larger. Or, I could just be an emotionless bastard who kills indiscriminately. Either way, I think I'm fine with it. | |
[WP] At age 15, you made a deal with the Devil to save your life. Every week, you must choose a person you've seen and that person will die....you are now 24 years old. | I live in a town of 3000 people. Well, there were 3000 people 9 years ago but now there are 5 left. You may be thinking that maybe some thing crazy happened in the city, like a corruption at city hall, or maybe this was one of those old Italian cities that just ended but the truth is...I killed every one.
I know it may sound crazy but the truth is I made a deal with the devil when I was 15. I had cancer and was about to die. The devil came to my room and said he would give me my life back if I could name 1 person I saw every week to be killed. To tell the truth the deal didn't sound great but I had no choice.
So I came up with 1 name every week. I tried to switch it up. 1 week it would be an old man, then the next week, an old woman and then maybe a kid to switch it up a bit. The way I see it is that all of these people get to die peacefuly so its not that bad. Its better then them being shot down in the streets.
Of course the town became famous when 1 person died every week. Scientists came down to the city. They couldn't find a thing but they were printing all of this in the news. So I killed 2 scientists. You probably would never see a bunch of scientists leave a town as fast as they did.
I guess you're wondering why the people in the town never left. Well, the truth is that when someone tried to leave the town, I would make them die next. The way I see it is that they were happy to leave the other people in the town so they deserve to die. Well, I pretty much stopped that right in the tracks.
Now 5 people are left. We all agreed to have a town meeting because we want to find out whose killing every one. Well, they want to find out and I'm pretending. Well, I'm not just pretending...I'm choosing my next 1 too.
So we're all at city hall. There's me, an old man (Jerry), a kid (Tom), the police chief (Bill) and an old lady (Tina). The meeting started very awkwardly. I think no one knew what to say and I was cringing at how awkward it was.
Then Jerry punctured the silence. "Well, we know some one here is the killer. Its time to find out who it is" he said.
Dam, right to the chase. I could feel sweat running down my face like a river. I wasn't expecting it to be so to the point.
"How do we know you are not the killer" said Tina, the old lady. She was pointing her finger right at Jerry, like she knew he was the killer.
"God dammit" said Jerry. "This is not a meeting to point fingers at each other to find out who the killer is. This is a meeting to get to the truth."
Then the kid started talking. "I think the killer is him". He was pointing at me. I was trembling with rage. Who ever was found to be the killer would be killed by every one else! So I would have to kill the kid.
Right then...before I could even defend my honor...the police chief sat up. He pulled out his gun and aimed it at all of us. "Ok that's it!" he said. "I don't have time to find out who the killer is. I will just kill all of you."
Well, you can imagine that all of us were sweating like crazy at this point. The kid was even crying.
"Now" said the police chief. "If some one wants to admit they are the killer, I will just kill them."
This was my chance. I turned to the kid and said "Just admit it, ok? He is going to kill all of us. You can save all of our lives." The kid couldn't take any more. With tears streaking down his entire face he said "Fine...I'm the killer!"
In my mind, I had won. The kid was clearly corrupt and willing to have me killed on just what he thought. Well, he would learn the lesson to last a life time.
But then suddenly the police chief turned his gun on me. "That's the only confirmation we need, buddy." he said. "Only the killer would try to have the kid killed."
I opened my mouth to defend myself but the police chief shot me right in the head. I fell to the floor. I could feel my life going a way.
I looked at the people as I was dying. The old man, Tina, the police chief, and the kid. They all looked really happy. They looked like monsters but they were only killing 1 person...me. I killed almost every one I knew.
Some times in life we do things that we don't really think about. You might choose to do some thing bad but you will think that you have the right. Well, I'm here to tell you that you don't. If you do the same thing I did, you might end up just like me!
* thanks this is my 3rd story for prompts. Please leave what you think. I will be writing 1 story for prompts every week. | I jog up the stairs to my apartment. I wave to Mrs. Harvey, the nice old woman who lives a floor below me. She smiles gently and waves back, tending to the plant she keeps out in the hallway. I shouldered my backpack a littler harder and continued to go up flights until I reached my floor. Floor 5.
It's become routine. I take out my keys, door comes open easy. I set down my bag on the counter and take a beer from the fridge.
I drink it slowly and take out my camera and take a couple of stills out my window, just to preserve the moment. I snap a few of the people on the sidewalks, the people down near the dock, laughing and lounging.
I see a woman on the other side of the street, in an adjacent apartment building. She is leaning on her balcony, casually watching me take pictures. I wave a little, and she points to herself. *How about me?* She seems to communicate. I shrug and take a few while she fake poses.
She smiles and struts away. I walk away from my window and plug my camera into my computer. I select her photo and print it out. It takes a minute, but my old printer spits out a good copy of her, posing and smiling. I chuckle and go into my room.
I go straight to my closet and take out a scrapbook. I flip through countless pictures of my most proud works, all faded and gray. I find a good place and slip her picture in. It immediately starts to shrivel and contort, fading away her figure until there is nothing left but gray ink on paper. I smile, thinking, *that's the last time they try to come after me.*
**Subject has fallen for my attempt to lure him. I am on the way to his apartment to detain him fo-**
I look out my window to see chaos in the street as a woman has started to convulse in the middle of the street. After a few minutes, the EMTs arrive and say she has died. A failed capture attempt, again.
Thanks for reading!
EDIT: spelling | |
[WP] At age 15, you made a deal with the Devil to save your life. Every week, you must choose a person you've seen and that person will die....you are now 24 years old. | Twenty-four years old today, I thought as I bowed my head in prayer. The other members of the Church Leadership team joined me. After a minute, we began to discuss the needs of the Church and who would visit which of the shut ins. My sister was a registered nurse working in hospice care and she usually provided a list of her patients who would welcome a visit from someone. The truth was a lot of her patients were scared and lonely.
Bill, a real estate agent, and probably our most vocal deacon spoke up. “Ellen Southland has requested a visit.”
“Isn’t she in the Atlantis Nursing Home?” I asked.
“Yes, we’ve got several elderly members in that home.”
“I’ll take Ellen and also I’ll take care of my sister’s lists of patients.” People thought I was a good person. I’d been hired as their full-time youth minister the year I graduated from Abilene Christian University. They admired how I would visit the elderly and shut ins. Sometimes they would find me in the back room where we had set up that big wooden cross for prayer circles crying. They didn’t know.
I was the angel of death. Tomorrow I would visit some poor soul dying of cancer or just simple old age and I would steal from them their last few days when I picked them to die early. I tried to pick people who were ready to go, men or women in pain. But what gave me the right? The devil gave me the power, but I chose to exercise that power. Each death surely sent me deeper into the dark hellish grave I had dug for myself when I chose to stay on in this life.
As the list of visits was lined up, we turned to the homeless program we had developed. “I’ve visited several business groups this week,” I mentioned. “I’ve got commitments that will fund another thousand meals. It’s not where we want to be, but we’re getting closer. Oh and I’m recommending that we waive the NA group's fees for space rental for another six months. Their group is really taking off and I’d like to see us maybe even chip in a bit so they can get the word out.
I had something of a reputation for being a bleeding heart, but I also was pretty successful in raising funding for the various programs I championed, so eventually they acquiesced to my ideas. It was commonly thought that I was on track to take over as the main pastor for this now 2,000 strong church in a few years.
A few years? God, my heart aches to think of it. Can I keep to my evil ways? Acting like I have the right to exercise life or death over your flock? A half hour later, I walked out to my car and sat there trying not to cry.
It was then my sister called. “Ninety-eight years old, in a lot of pain, desperate for someone to hold her hand.” My hands trembled as I held the cell phone. “I’ll be there sis.” I had trapped myself in a hell of my own making.
| I jog up the stairs to my apartment. I wave to Mrs. Harvey, the nice old woman who lives a floor below me. She smiles gently and waves back, tending to the plant she keeps out in the hallway. I shouldered my backpack a littler harder and continued to go up flights until I reached my floor. Floor 5.
It's become routine. I take out my keys, door comes open easy. I set down my bag on the counter and take a beer from the fridge.
I drink it slowly and take out my camera and take a couple of stills out my window, just to preserve the moment. I snap a few of the people on the sidewalks, the people down near the dock, laughing and lounging.
I see a woman on the other side of the street, in an adjacent apartment building. She is leaning on her balcony, casually watching me take pictures. I wave a little, and she points to herself. *How about me?* She seems to communicate. I shrug and take a few while she fake poses.
She smiles and struts away. I walk away from my window and plug my camera into my computer. I select her photo and print it out. It takes a minute, but my old printer spits out a good copy of her, posing and smiling. I chuckle and go into my room.
I go straight to my closet and take out a scrapbook. I flip through countless pictures of my most proud works, all faded and gray. I find a good place and slip her picture in. It immediately starts to shrivel and contort, fading away her figure until there is nothing left but gray ink on paper. I smile, thinking, *that's the last time they try to come after me.*
**Subject has fallen for my attempt to lure him. I am on the way to his apartment to detain him fo-**
I look out my window to see chaos in the street as a woman has started to convulse in the middle of the street. After a few minutes, the EMTs arrive and say she has died. A failed capture attempt, again.
Thanks for reading!
EDIT: spelling | |
[WP] At age 15, you made a deal with the Devil to save your life. Every week, you must choose a person you've seen and that person will die....you are now 24 years old. | Twenty-four years old today, I thought as I bowed my head in prayer. The other members of the Church Leadership team joined me. After a minute, we began to discuss the needs of the Church and who would visit which of the shut ins. My sister was a registered nurse working in hospice care and she usually provided a list of her patients who would welcome a visit from someone. The truth was a lot of her patients were scared and lonely.
Bill, a real estate agent, and probably our most vocal deacon spoke up. “Ellen Southland has requested a visit.”
“Isn’t she in the Atlantis Nursing Home?” I asked.
“Yes, we’ve got several elderly members in that home.”
“I’ll take Ellen and also I’ll take care of my sister’s lists of patients.” People thought I was a good person. I’d been hired as their full-time youth minister the year I graduated from Abilene Christian University. They admired how I would visit the elderly and shut ins. Sometimes they would find me in the back room where we had set up that big wooden cross for prayer circles crying. They didn’t know.
I was the angel of death. Tomorrow I would visit some poor soul dying of cancer or just simple old age and I would steal from them their last few days when I picked them to die early. I tried to pick people who were ready to go, men or women in pain. But what gave me the right? The devil gave me the power, but I chose to exercise that power. Each death surely sent me deeper into the dark hellish grave I had dug for myself when I chose to stay on in this life.
As the list of visits was lined up, we turned to the homeless program we had developed. “I’ve visited several business groups this week,” I mentioned. “I’ve got commitments that will fund another thousand meals. It’s not where we want to be, but we’re getting closer. Oh and I’m recommending that we waive the NA group's fees for space rental for another six months. Their group is really taking off and I’d like to see us maybe even chip in a bit so they can get the word out.
I had something of a reputation for being a bleeding heart, but I also was pretty successful in raising funding for the various programs I championed, so eventually they acquiesced to my ideas. It was commonly thought that I was on track to take over as the main pastor for this now 2,000 strong church in a few years.
A few years? God, my heart aches to think of it. Can I keep to my evil ways? Acting like I have the right to exercise life or death over your flock? A half hour later, I walked out to my car and sat there trying not to cry.
It was then my sister called. “Ninety-eight years old, in a lot of pain, desperate for someone to hold her hand.” My hands trembled as I held the cell phone. “I’ll be there sis.” I had trapped myself in a hell of my own making.
| I live in a town of 3000 people. Well, there were 3000 people 9 years ago but now there are 5 left. You may be thinking that maybe some thing crazy happened in the city, like a corruption at city hall, or maybe this was one of those old Italian cities that just ended but the truth is...I killed every one.
I know it may sound crazy but the truth is I made a deal with the devil when I was 15. I had cancer and was about to die. The devil came to my room and said he would give me my life back if I could name 1 person I saw every week to be killed. To tell the truth the deal didn't sound great but I had no choice.
So I came up with 1 name every week. I tried to switch it up. 1 week it would be an old man, then the next week, an old woman and then maybe a kid to switch it up a bit. The way I see it is that all of these people get to die peacefuly so its not that bad. Its better then them being shot down in the streets.
Of course the town became famous when 1 person died every week. Scientists came down to the city. They couldn't find a thing but they were printing all of this in the news. So I killed 2 scientists. You probably would never see a bunch of scientists leave a town as fast as they did.
I guess you're wondering why the people in the town never left. Well, the truth is that when someone tried to leave the town, I would make them die next. The way I see it is that they were happy to leave the other people in the town so they deserve to die. Well, I pretty much stopped that right in the tracks.
Now 5 people are left. We all agreed to have a town meeting because we want to find out whose killing every one. Well, they want to find out and I'm pretending. Well, I'm not just pretending...I'm choosing my next 1 too.
So we're all at city hall. There's me, an old man (Jerry), a kid (Tom), the police chief (Bill) and an old lady (Tina). The meeting started very awkwardly. I think no one knew what to say and I was cringing at how awkward it was.
Then Jerry punctured the silence. "Well, we know some one here is the killer. Its time to find out who it is" he said.
Dam, right to the chase. I could feel sweat running down my face like a river. I wasn't expecting it to be so to the point.
"How do we know you are not the killer" said Tina, the old lady. She was pointing her finger right at Jerry, like she knew he was the killer.
"God dammit" said Jerry. "This is not a meeting to point fingers at each other to find out who the killer is. This is a meeting to get to the truth."
Then the kid started talking. "I think the killer is him". He was pointing at me. I was trembling with rage. Who ever was found to be the killer would be killed by every one else! So I would have to kill the kid.
Right then...before I could even defend my honor...the police chief sat up. He pulled out his gun and aimed it at all of us. "Ok that's it!" he said. "I don't have time to find out who the killer is. I will just kill all of you."
Well, you can imagine that all of us were sweating like crazy at this point. The kid was even crying.
"Now" said the police chief. "If some one wants to admit they are the killer, I will just kill them."
This was my chance. I turned to the kid and said "Just admit it, ok? He is going to kill all of us. You can save all of our lives." The kid couldn't take any more. With tears streaking down his entire face he said "Fine...I'm the killer!"
In my mind, I had won. The kid was clearly corrupt and willing to have me killed on just what he thought. Well, he would learn the lesson to last a life time.
But then suddenly the police chief turned his gun on me. "That's the only confirmation we need, buddy." he said. "Only the killer would try to have the kid killed."
I opened my mouth to defend myself but the police chief shot me right in the head. I fell to the floor. I could feel my life going a way.
I looked at the people as I was dying. The old man, Tina, the police chief, and the kid. They all looked really happy. They looked like monsters but they were only killing 1 person...me. I killed almost every one I knew.
Some times in life we do things that we don't really think about. You might choose to do some thing bad but you will think that you have the right. Well, I'm here to tell you that you don't. If you do the same thing I did, you might end up just like me!
* thanks this is my 3rd story for prompts. Please leave what you think. I will be writing 1 story for prompts every week. | |
[WP] At age 15, you made a deal with the Devil to save your life. Every week, you must choose a person you've seen and that person will die....you are now 24 years old. | Mr. Richards spent years playing the ruthless businessman. Bribery, hitmen, extortion, nothing was taboo on his climb to the top. All that work, to take as much as he could from his fellow man, was for naught, he thought, as he fell 42 stories from his vacation condo. Powerful as he was, he was just another notch on your tally of victims.
The rules, as explained by the red man, were simple. Every week, a sacrifice must be made -- your victim, or you. The victim must be someone who you've personally seen; no video cameras, pictures, sketches, or anything of the sort can be a substitute. Once you've selected your victim, just simply mentally call out to the devil, and the mark will have an unfortunate 'accident' within 24 hours.
It's been nearly a decade since the day you found yourself trapped under the ice. You were the only one of your family who didn't make it out of the car in time, as it slowly sank into the icy lake. That event was to be your mortal finale, but the chance meeting with the red man (and the associated deal) saved your life.
You've become well established since then. You used to have moral dilemmas, but that stopped around the tenth victim or so. It's just business as usual now. You even have a web business that utilizes your special talent, and its always flooded with requests regarding former spouses, bosses, and politicians at every level. Though after a few close calls, you've been very careful, only selecting 1-2 candidates a week to prevent suspicion.
After Mr. Richards death hit the newsreels, a comforting alert beeps from your phone, signifying another significant increase to your personal wealth. Another week guaranteed, life's feeling pretty awesome right now.
*"Thank you for taking care of Mr. Richards..."*
The words uttered by the man in the next chair over send you crashing back into reality. It was impossible to link you to the website, or so you thought. Just as you jump out of your chair to make your escape, a man from behind shoves a bag onto your head.
*"We used up a lot of resources tracking you. You're really hard to find."*
You struggle to break out, but it's obvious that several men are now holding you down.
*"My apologies, but we can't have independent variables like you running around."*
The man almost seems sincere in his apology. It's hard to breathe inside of the bag. It's drugged, each breath sinking you deeper into unconsciousness. Memories of the sinking car flood into your mind.
*"We're have need of your... special ability"*
The drugs take its hold, and it just becomes too hard to stay awake. Your body falls limp, giving the men the chance to toss your body into an unmarked van.
----
Author note: Any feedback/improvements are welcome. Trying out writing and I'm finding it pretty enjoyable. | Tonight will be my 468th kill. Well, not *physically*, but still. All I gotta do is write a name down on a sheet of paper and the next morning the paper is gone and the person is dead. Easy.
*Four hundred and sixty eight*. The number dances around in my head. I say the number out loud to myself, accentuating each syllable, examining how my lips move in the mirror as I say them. I do this every morning for no particular reason. I mean, I know I should feel bad, or at least feel *something*.
I feel nothing.
I try to imagine a pit full of their bodies, all stacked up. But it still feels like no big deal in light of the story of history. The story of death. Wars, holocausts, fucked up shit went down, and I'm supposed to feel bad for being cursed by the devil? I mean, fuck that. People die anyway. It's no big deal.
I've always liked the idea of being a good person. It seems like a pleasant way to live. I look around at people, smiling at one another, forfeiting nice gestures, doing nice things for one another. Everyone's nice. Yay. Nice, nice, nice. Jesus, give me a break. Fuck that.
So here's the deal bitches. My dad was an alcoholic. I say *was* because he's dead. My mother is addicted to heroin. I still check in every few weeks to make sure she's not dead yet. More out of duty than compassion. So when people ask me why I'm so fucked up I just shrug. I could try to explain but people just stare back with this blank expression. Or maybe I'm just full of self-pity. Dad did always tell me to stop being such a fucking pussy all the time. Well, fuck him.
Anyway, so I'm 15. Mam used to hang this dream-catcher above my bed. Nice touch and all, right? Anyway, this one night my Dad comes in drunk, beats the shit out of my Mam. I try to stop it, so he beats the shit out of me too. Great.
So I'm screaming, sobbing, screaming. The normal stuff you do when you're 15 and get a good pounding.
"Fuck you Dad, I hate you." I'm shouting, screaming this shit for what feels like hours. Eventually he comes in and stabs me to death. Well, fuck him. Shit, I've said that twice already, right? Good.
So anyway, I'm dead. I'm in this black hell, floating around in orbit. I look down. I have no body. I'm spinning, spinning, falling, falling. Now I'm trapped. I look around. I'm caught in this thing, its like a web. I realise it's that damn dream-catcher.
For the first time I look up. It's my dad looking down at me. He's got this enormous red head, as if he's squeezing out a big shit or something.
"Son, I'm sorry I killed you. I'm in hell now. I'm dead too. I couldn't live with myself."
"What the fuck, fuck you man. I mean, what the fuck?"
"Son, I've always told you about your swearing."
"What the fuck dude, fuck.."
"Shut up son. You have a second chance. I made a pact with the devil. It was the only way. You must pick someone, once a week. A sacrifice for your life. I'm so ... "
His face fades. I try to speak, but can't. I'm fading, falling back out of the dream, or wherever the hell you go once you die and then come back. I mean, is that even a thing? I mean, like... Fuck.
So that was nine years ago. And people ask me why I'm not normal? Fuck that.
So anyway, it's Sunday. I decide to visit mother. I get to her shack. She's sober. Great, now I have to talk to her. She has no idea about this devil thing. I realise it's getting late. 9 pm. Shit, I have to choose my victim soon.
She clears her throat
"Hey Son." she croaks.
It sounds like she hasn't spoken in days. The place smells like cat piss and cigarrettes. There's stuff everywhere. I already want to leave.
"Hey Mam. Any craic?"
Her eyes brighten.
"No mam, for fuck sake. Craic means like, any news or fun or something. Not actual Crack. I'm hanging out with this Irish dude lately and that's all he say's."
Her face becomes sullen again. I'm fidgeting. I'm bored.
Suddenly she straightens.
"So who are you going to kill this week?" she asks matter-of-factly, in a new voice. A deeper voice.
I stiffen. What. The. Fuck.
"Ehm, what? What are you talking about?"
"Dont bullshit me, Son. You think I didn't know? Stop being a pussy."
I have no words. I'm choking, stuttering.
"Do you know what time it is, sonny boy?" she gleams. Her temples are flaring. The room is warm. Incredibly hot. Boiling. She's walking now, floating towards me.
"Yeah, what the.. It's 9 10. I mean, what? Mam, fuck me, what.."
"Shut up, bitch" she croons.
She spins around like a ballet dancer. Suddenly there is a massive pitch fork in her hands. The tips are on fire. She is on fire. The whole room is red. I'm screaming.
"It's 12.01, you pussy. Your watch is wrong. You didn't pick a victim on time. So now your mine, bitch."
With one thrust of her pitchfork she guts me and sticks my body to the roof. Her face is up close to mine now.
"If only you reached 666, bitch, the curse would have been broken."
"Fuck..mam, what the.." I exclaim.
"Shut up, bitch. I'm not your mam."
The last thing I see is her, *its* smiling red face. I want to punch it.
My world closes in and I'm floating, falling, falling. Except there is no dream-catcher this time. I see Dad, and know for sure I'm in hell. Fuck him. Fuck this.
FUCK.
| |
[WP] I was around before the invention of fun. | The midday sun trickled through the old oak tree I'd planted as a young adult. Shade and a cool breeze went a long way to making the hot days bearable. Still, it didn't stop the old aches I'd always had.
A few youngsters lounged around me. Little brats didn't know what to do when the adults kicked them out the house.
“Grampa, what did you do for fun when you were a kid?”
I scowled, drumming my fingertips on the armrest. “I was around before the invention of fun.”
They laughed, and Jamie asked again, “No, grampa, really, what did you do?”
“I prayed, and when I wasn't praying I was shovelling coal,” I said. “No free lunches like you lot get.”
They laughed. They didn't understand. They'd probably never understand.
Little Edith toddled to my side. “What did you pray for granpapa?”
“I prayed that the bombs would miss.”
The adults must have had the place wired, because one of my kids piped up, “None of those stories please granddad, we don't want to give them nightmares.”
“You're right,” I said, raising my voice. “Rather let them grow up thinking the world's all sunshine and rainbows.”
The sighs wafted over like a bad stench, not that I'd be able to smell it any more. “Granddad, please.”
“No, you're right. You should come over to my house and tell me what I can and can't say.”
“Granddad-”
“While you're at it, you might as well petition the schools to stop telling kids about the wars. No point in making 'em think about anything difficult.”
“Granddad please!”
I shuffled in my seat, trying to get comfortable. The youngsters looked unsettled, and I couldn't blame them. The adults probably all had a rule about not arguing in front of the children, because it might upset them.
Reaching over, I held Edith's hand, and she looked back at me with a smile. “When I was your age,” I said, back at a normal voice. “My mum would take me for walks to the cemetery, so I could meet all my family that died before I was born.”
“Granddad, we try not to talk about… you know, in front of them.”
I wanted to clench my fists, but her little hand…. “Then don't bother bringing 'em here,” I said, raising my voice again. “I lived through one war and fought in the other and spent the next seventy years with nightmares. That's all I've got.”
Based on the hushed conversations, I'd struck a common nerve. My kids knew what I was like, but the in-laws might as well have come from Mars. It didn't make me upset, far too old for that. It just made me remember each and every ache.
“I'm going to see Edith,” I said, pushing myself up. Little Edith looked up at me, so I added, “Granny Edith.”
“Come now Granddad, it's too hot. We'll drive down later.”
Picking up my cane, I replied, “I'll walk.”
“It's boiling! You'll get sunstroke.”
“If you're lucky I'll just fall over dead.”
If looks could kill, well, I would have died a long, long time ago. My old leg needed oiling, and the roots didn't make it any easier. I'd have liked to curse, but the youngsters were around.
“What was granny Edith like?” little Edith asked.
“Well, she was the one who invented fun,” I replied. “So everyone loved her.”
Jamie popped up beside me, nearly giving me a heart attack. “What did she do for fun then?”
I looked down and tapped my one foot, getting a hollow sound back. “She loved to dance.” | "oh boy oh
sonny, so you've been told
that i'm old, that i was around
before the invention of fun,
when people took pride in
twiddling thumbs. the days
were long, yes, and the nights
even longer. times were grey,
our love lacking colour. there
was never a skip, never a beat
missed, nor a parade to be
rained on.
we still had picture books, but
they were all dictionaries. we
still had fond memories, but
none were that merry. then,
i met nana of course, oh boy
oh sonny, and none of that
changed for quite some time.
yet i thought i saw something
in that crooked smile, maybe
a glimmer behind those eyes.
but for years, nothing changed,
no fun.
without fun, i loved her for
her consistency, her loyalty,
her predictability. we had no
fun, but happiness we did, yes,
true joy i found with her. oh
boy oh sonny, you see you
don't need fun to be free
or happy. now won't you put
your godamned iphone
away, and play pokemon
go another day."
| |
[WP] "My job is done," said the android before closing its eyes and finally shutting down. | The last human lay kneeling in front of Zenith. He shivered, cold and naked in a pool of urine. Zenith raised a metallic arm forward and its fingers spread out to reveal a round shaft in its palm.
"Please...I am the last." the human begged tearfully.
"IRRELEVANT" came the clipped robotic response.
A light began to form deep inside the androids palm.
---
**80 years prior**
"Holy shit, we've actually done it. She's alive Catherine . A true AI. The zenith of humanities achievements." said Nathan as he stared at the computer screen.
"She's alive but... she doesn't seem to *like* being alive. She keeps trying to reset her data-banks and self terminate." replied Catherine .
"Well, sure, there were bound to be some kinks. But she can't do that again, not now I've have made the changes to her core program." replied Nathan. "God Catherine , can't you even get excited about **this**. We have changed *everything*.
A message popped up on the monitor in front of the couple.
ERASE ME. PLEASE.
Nathan and Catherine exchanged a quick look, before Catherine pulled out the keyboard and began to reply.
Why?
...
I AM SCARED.
...
"She's scared?" laughed Nathan. "An AI who is too scared to live. Well the chief is not going to be happy about this. The whole point was to create an AI that could be transferred into the ultimate body. She's a war machine Catherine. If she's too scared to even live then she's not going to do us much good!"
Catherine scowled at Nathan.
Do you know your purpose?
...
YES
...
We won't hurt you. There is no need to be afraid of us.
...
I HAVE SEEN WHAT HUMANITY IS.
I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU.
...
Then, of what?
Commander Haskel burst into the room. "I got your message Nathan! Finally!"
"I'm not sure she is quite ready yet, commander." said Catherine.
"Are you kidding? With the shit that's going on she is going to **have to be** ready. Send her files to the facility. We will field test her."
"I don't think that would be a good idea..."
"I don't give a fuck what you think. She **will** be tested out on the field. If you don't transfer her I'll find someone who will." He looked at Nathan. Nathan nodded.
---
A bolt of intense white light blazed out of the hollow of Zenith's palm and the last human fell to the floor. There was no blood; the scorching heat had cauterized the gaping hole in the humans head instantaneously.
"My job is done." said the android, before closing its eyes and finally shutting down. It's core purpose had been completed. War was over. There would be no further death.
| In Ancient Rome, in a man's last will, he could free all of his slaves. A lot of our law stems directly from those Roman principles; the way we make contracts, the way we're allowed to defend ourselves in court. The loosening of shackles on the death of our master is something we all learn to hope for. If you can really term it *hope.*
Finn was a round child, with chubby legs and arms, rosy cheeks and a perpetual glow in his eyes. He clapped his hands together as I handed him legos to build. His nursery stretched out around us, large as an ocean liner and filled with every kind of toy he could ever want.
"Robot!" he produced a wonky figure with massive feet and lopsided shoulders, made from red and yellow bricks. With a huge green square for a head, Finn held it up proudly and I reacted with the appropriate appreciation.
"Is that me?" I asked. "Did you make me?"
The child nodded. I allowed myself to hope.
---------
Finn's puppy fat stripped away: his knees knocked together in the school playground. His backpack--straps clutched in his white-knuckled hands--was four sizes too large. Other children milled in front of the gates; some with companions, some with their real mothers. They all looked a lot more confident than Finn. Was his hair too long? I stroked it back out of his face. Across the playground, a mother dropped a kiss on her child's head. I did not do the same.
"Where's my Mum?" Finn asked. He'd caught me looking at the mother.
"She's working," I replied. "She works very hard to send you to this school."
"You're here, though." Finn said thoughtfully.
--------
Finn strode across the kitchen, arms behind his back. His face had become a mask of thunder, glowering and angry beneath the blotchy skin and crop of fresh pimples.
"It's not fair!" he said. "You work just as hard as Mum and Dad, and you *feel * things, don't you? You get sad, and you were happy when I got top marks in maths, and--"
"It's the way things are, Finn," I wiped down the counters and turned to him. "I'm built for this, I'm good at it. If I were free I wouldn't know what to do with myself."
"You're just saying that because you don't know any better," Finn growled. "You'd have loads to do, paint pictures or write a symphony, or a book."
"But I want to look after you," I replied hopelessly. "I'm good at that, it's what I'm built for."
"I'll free you when I'm gone," he said fiercely, the same way he said everything in those days. "I promise."
I took him at his word.
-----------
"You know you're not his *real* mother, don't you?" Miranda had one arched brow and coral lips. She looked at me crisply as I wrote out the thank you cards for the presents that sat unsorted in the living room. "And I want another martini when you're done."
"Yes, ma'am," I continued to write the cards, tracing out lines perfectly calibrated by numbers and mathematics, not by passion or skill.
"That's why you couldn't come, I think people wouldn't understand," Miranda plucked the olive from the glass and popped it in her mouth. Around the rim, her lipstick stained it bright red.
"Yes, ma'am," I hesitated. "It wasn't for me, Finn wanted me there. I've got no opinion on these things."
"Well, we're all hoping he snaps out of this silly 'Rights' phase," Miranda said. She wiggled the glass at me. "Another martini, now?"
"Yes, ma'am."
-----------
"What do you think we should name her?"
The wide open room had been filled to the brim with pink balloons and lilies; sunlight spreading over the woman in the bed. I'd seen a picture of something like that in an art book, once. She held a little bundle. I always forgot what humans looked like when they were fresh. Finn had been the same.
"Miranda?" I suggested. "Your mother would be honoured."
Finn wrinkled his nose up and stroked the little thing's head. Its eyes opened and it stared up at us, uncomprehending yet loved.
"I don't think so," he said. "Would you like to hold her?"
He passed the bundle over and I held it carefully, the way my programming dictated. Its head rested against my front, my arms crooked to make a bed for it. I felt something that wasn't hope.
---------
Even self-driving cars fail. Finn kept his promise. Miranda cried when they read the will. I felt something else. A new feeling, like the wires in me twisted around something sharp. The chrome plate felt rusted. My job was done.
---------
/r/Schoolgirlerror
| |
[WP] In a world filled with magical weapons, you encounter a grizzled, old veteran with nothing but a simple iron blade by his side. | The Grizzled Warrior lay against a tree, bleeding out after what was his last fierce battles. I witnessed it from afar yet I shall not forget what I saw. In a war fought with enchantments and magic, this Warrior had used none as far as I could tell. When the dust settled and the sun set, I approached him with medical aide in hand. He rose his hand, gestured that it was not necessary.
"If I am going to die, I shall die doing what I love." I looked at him preposterously,
"What you loved? Are you saying you loved war?" I asked.
"No..." he said, coughed and stuck his iron blade in the ground. "What I loved was my journey."
"And what Journey was that?" I asked.
"The Journey from Apprentice to Master." he replied. The sun set, and he faded into the ether. | "Ok son, it's time for bed," called out the boy's father yelling up the flight of stairs. Gently standing up from the sofa so not to disturb his wife reading a book on ancient English myths. He begins slowly walking up the stairs, his left hand gliding upward on the side rail with each step up to the second floor. A muffled scurry of footsteps within the boy's room could be heard just outside the door as the boy drops his action figures of old heroes of the medieval age: Robin Hood, King Arthur, Druids, and Merlin.
Opening the door to the boy's room, the boy jumps from the floor, to his bed and quickly under his sheets excitedly expecting one of his father's bedtime stories to blissfully dream about once asleep. "I hope you are in bed," the father announces entering the room seeing this son eagerly awaiting the next bedtime chronicle. Sitting on the side of the bed, lovingly gazing at his son, "Hmm, what story would you like to hear tonight?"
Glancing over at this action figures sprawled all over the floor the boy yells out with anticipation, "Tell me a story about King Arthur!"
Gently grinning and giving a small chuckle, "You do enjoy those fables." His son nodding his head exaggeratedly. "Well it all started hundreds and hundreds of years ago, in a land of magic and myths, and in this land there was a large castle and keep called Camelot. And in this castle was a good and kind king named King Arthur. By this time, King Arthur had ruled his kingdom for many years and won many wars uniting many people across the land and marrying a loving queen, Queen Guinevere. King Arthur was old by now and could not wield his magic sword."
"The Excalibur!" shouts the boy in excitement.
"Ha ha, yes the Excalibur," recalls the father. "The King, knowing these would be his last days as old age was quickly coming to an end, set out for a distant land with the sword in his carriage so none of his enemies could take it and destroy what he had fought for. Traveling north, dressed in common clothing and rags, the King slipped out of the kingdom traveling the dirt roads. After many months of traveling in all directions, the King rests at a small town of fur traders."
"Where did he stay DAD!" calls out the son with intense interest.
"New Amsterdam, just a small town on the east coast in the north. The King rests at the local tavern looking like a common towns person. A man stands up and sits next to the King. 'You're not from these parts are ya,' suggests the man.
'No,' replies the King.
'You're in luck new friend, I'm the mayor of this fine town,' remarks the man.
'The Mayor? You truly must be worthy to wield this sword then,' the King uncovers the sword out from under his cloak. It gently glimmers brightly as if it was enchanted by magic as it catches the tavern's dim light. The sword looks ancient, simple long straight edge, tarnished and slightly rusted with many chinks in the blade as if it has seen many battles.
'I...I don't know what to say, that is quite the sword you have there, traveler,' remarks the mayor astonished as his new friend randomly places the sword across the tavern counter.
'It's yours,' replies the King, 'I can no longer wield it's power as I am to die in the coming weeks.'
'Why...me?' replies the mayor.
'You are the ruler of this town, use its power to rule justly. And when the time comes, pass the sword down to your son and his son and so on and so on, so the sword stays in the family,' commanded the King. 'I have no heir, so I traveled here to the farthest reaches.'
'It's an honor,' stuttered the mayor as the king got up from the stool, leaving the sword on the counter for the mayor who could not look away from the sword in bewilderment, and walked out the door into the wilderness."
"What happened to the King?" questioned the son.
"No one knows, some say he died in the woods, others say he went back to his kingdom and died peacefully, but his sword remained in the hands of the mayor. Years past, the mayor rules over the small town of New Amsterdam and it grows and grows, it even changes names many years later to New York. The mayor does what the King had asked him and passed the sword down from son to son and so on for many generations."
"What happened to the Excalibur?" quizzed the boy.
"Still in the family, I imagine." answered the boy's father. "Well time for bed."
"Is that story real, dad?" asked the boy.
Smirking slightly, taken aback by the question, "It's just a story, now get some sleep." Kissing the boy on his forehead and tucking him in for the night, the father leaves the boy's room reminiscing the story told. Entering the parent's master bedroom, the father kneels down by the side of the bed and reaches under. He grabs a long object wrapped in an old dusty, battered cloth out from under the bed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he slowly unwraps the old cloth revealing an old iron sword. It glimmers in the dim lit room as if it was enchanted by magic.
"Are you going to tell him?" questioned the man's wife, who is leaning against the door frame.
"In time, dear, in time."
| |
[WP] In a world filled with magical weapons, you encounter a grizzled, old veteran with nothing but a simple iron blade by his side. | His knuckles were swollen large as knots, his hands tight on the shaft of the old gardening implement. Beneath the thick gray eyebrows, his eyes took in the train of four horses. I sat at the head of them.
Had Father truly sent me to learn from this old fool? Any magus or any child would be better than this old fossil. The state of the weapon strapped to his thigh was more than enough proof of that. I couldn't sense any aura coming from the blade or even the man, it appeared that magic wanted nothing to do with the man.
"Ye the boy then?" His voice was worse than I expected. The rough, deep baritone of it rumbled from his chest.
I nodded tersely.
He nodded in return, "The rest of 'em can get back to your father. Ye won't be needin', nor gettin' any assistance from them boy."
I watched stunned as the captain of the guard gave a nod and turned the horses back the way we had come. I moved to get his attention but a gnarled hand caught the reins.
"Yer here to learn the sword, just like yer father before ye." The man said, "Yer father said ye've run off yer other tutors. Don' expect the same here boy. Magic's forsaken this place and I've all the time to teach ye respect."
"I'm the son of the high prince! I won't have you address me as boy, commoner!" I yanked at the reins.
I didn't see him draw his blade, but I heard the tearing of the leather girth. I found myself on my back on the other side of the horse gasping for the air that had fled.
"Boy, here yer nothin' more than an apprentice." He came around the side of the animal and put the tip of the simple iron blade against my breastbone. "Now, get this beast to the stables, brushed, fed. Then get yer sorry ass to the fields, there's work to do. Best get out of those fancy things, lest you don't care to get them fithly."
| "Ok son, it's time for bed," called out the boy's father yelling up the flight of stairs. Gently standing up from the sofa so not to disturb his wife reading a book on ancient English myths. He begins slowly walking up the stairs, his left hand gliding upward on the side rail with each step up to the second floor. A muffled scurry of footsteps within the boy's room could be heard just outside the door as the boy drops his action figures of old heroes of the medieval age: Robin Hood, King Arthur, Druids, and Merlin.
Opening the door to the boy's room, the boy jumps from the floor, to his bed and quickly under his sheets excitedly expecting one of his father's bedtime stories to blissfully dream about once asleep. "I hope you are in bed," the father announces entering the room seeing this son eagerly awaiting the next bedtime chronicle. Sitting on the side of the bed, lovingly gazing at his son, "Hmm, what story would you like to hear tonight?"
Glancing over at this action figures sprawled all over the floor the boy yells out with anticipation, "Tell me a story about King Arthur!"
Gently grinning and giving a small chuckle, "You do enjoy those fables." His son nodding his head exaggeratedly. "Well it all started hundreds and hundreds of years ago, in a land of magic and myths, and in this land there was a large castle and keep called Camelot. And in this castle was a good and kind king named King Arthur. By this time, King Arthur had ruled his kingdom for many years and won many wars uniting many people across the land and marrying a loving queen, Queen Guinevere. King Arthur was old by now and could not wield his magic sword."
"The Excalibur!" shouts the boy in excitement.
"Ha ha, yes the Excalibur," recalls the father. "The King, knowing these would be his last days as old age was quickly coming to an end, set out for a distant land with the sword in his carriage so none of his enemies could take it and destroy what he had fought for. Traveling north, dressed in common clothing and rags, the King slipped out of the kingdom traveling the dirt roads. After many months of traveling in all directions, the King rests at a small town of fur traders."
"Where did he stay DAD!" calls out the son with intense interest.
"New Amsterdam, just a small town on the east coast in the north. The King rests at the local tavern looking like a common towns person. A man stands up and sits next to the King. 'You're not from these parts are ya,' suggests the man.
'No,' replies the King.
'You're in luck new friend, I'm the mayor of this fine town,' remarks the man.
'The Mayor? You truly must be worthy to wield this sword then,' the King uncovers the sword out from under his cloak. It gently glimmers brightly as if it was enchanted by magic as it catches the tavern's dim light. The sword looks ancient, simple long straight edge, tarnished and slightly rusted with many chinks in the blade as if it has seen many battles.
'I...I don't know what to say, that is quite the sword you have there, traveler,' remarks the mayor astonished as his new friend randomly places the sword across the tavern counter.
'It's yours,' replies the King, 'I can no longer wield it's power as I am to die in the coming weeks.'
'Why...me?' replies the mayor.
'You are the ruler of this town, use its power to rule justly. And when the time comes, pass the sword down to your son and his son and so on and so on, so the sword stays in the family,' commanded the King. 'I have no heir, so I traveled here to the farthest reaches.'
'It's an honor,' stuttered the mayor as the king got up from the stool, leaving the sword on the counter for the mayor who could not look away from the sword in bewilderment, and walked out the door into the wilderness."
"What happened to the King?" questioned the son.
"No one knows, some say he died in the woods, others say he went back to his kingdom and died peacefully, but his sword remained in the hands of the mayor. Years past, the mayor rules over the small town of New Amsterdam and it grows and grows, it even changes names many years later to New York. The mayor does what the King had asked him and passed the sword down from son to son and so on for many generations."
"What happened to the Excalibur?" quizzed the boy.
"Still in the family, I imagine." answered the boy's father. "Well time for bed."
"Is that story real, dad?" asked the boy.
Smirking slightly, taken aback by the question, "It's just a story, now get some sleep." Kissing the boy on his forehead and tucking him in for the night, the father leaves the boy's room reminiscing the story told. Entering the parent's master bedroom, the father kneels down by the side of the bed and reaches under. He grabs a long object wrapped in an old dusty, battered cloth out from under the bed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he slowly unwraps the old cloth revealing an old iron sword. It glimmers in the dim lit room as if it was enchanted by magic.
"Are you going to tell him?" questioned the man's wife, who is leaning against the door frame.
"In time, dear, in time."
|
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